


Heart of Hearing

by Hanelli, Jupiterra



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alfred you in so much trouble now, Alternate Universe - Human, Consensual Underage Sex, Cute Kids, Deaf Character, Dense much, Drag Queens, Fluff, Growing Up, Growing Up Together, Ivan is sassy af, Kiku is trying hard, Lars is a classic blockhead, M/M, Matthew is being very forward, Matthias and Gilbert are idiots all the way, Naughty shenanigans get caught!, Shit got dark in the high school years, Slow Burn, Suicide Attempt, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Underage Kissing, alfred is a tool, poor boy, vash is awkward, what are feelings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2020-02-23 20:59:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 30
Words: 73,144
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18709870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hanelli/pseuds/Hanelli, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupiterra/pseuds/Jupiterra
Summary: Born deaf, little Matthew has never had many friends. Follow him through kindergarten and beyond as he grows and learns! Tooth rotting fluff ahead!





	1. A New Leaf

Fall leaves like delicate paper between Matthew's small fingers. The boy sat in the yard, crushing the dead plant life until it was dust. He loved fall. He loved the chilly wind on his pale skin. He liked the colourful leaves of the preparing canopies. He adored the fluffy sweaters and the pumpkin carving at Halloween.

Matthew Bonnefoy was a cheerful little boy at heart, despite his gentle shyness. It made it all the more heart breaking why the child couldn't make any friends. The other children with their always opening mouths, their wild gestures. They made no sense, like fragments of trash fluttering in the wind. Matthew had no hope of catching their attentions, and he _never_ understood why.

Perhaps this being deaf business was why. Sound, whatever that was, seemed really important to other people. Matthew sulked a moment, stewing in his own loneliness. Kumanjirou was swift to end the isolation. He was a fluffy Samoyed of a dog, bounding over and giving his young master slobbery kisses. The wheaten blonde huffed small breaths of humour, squirming and rolling around to escape his captor.

The dog laid on him, intent on grooming wavy locks in a damp mess. It was a brief moment, a precious moment. The dog really was his only good friend. Alfred, his younger brother by a _whole_ year, shattered it like glass. The six year old raced over, mouth always opening and closing more than others. The boy proceeded to pull out a piece of paper with messy writing on it.

' ~~tyychr tea ker~~ teecher is here' the paper read.

Oh boy! The words teacher had arrived! Matthew got up with newfound glee. Both boys loved the language tutor Papa and Dad had hired. It was still a wonderful revelation that there was a way to talk to his parents. He had assumed before they were his loving protectors, only communicating through touches, expressions, and posture.

Barrelling into the house, children and dog were speckled with rotting autumn leaves. Dad stopped them all with a loving scowl, thick brows furrowed in concern. It was the signal to wait by the door as bits were brushed off Matthew's bright red sweater. Alfred never obeyed, racing ahead to the kitchen. The smell of fresh baked cookies wafted in the air, how marvellous!

Matthew waited for Dad's sign, a polite gesture of hands, before kicking off his shoes. Bolting ahead, he was all kinds of excited. There was cookies to be had! Papa was the best baker ever! The tutor, a kindly older woman in black, sat at the wooden dining table. She had bright flash cards in a big stack beside her. The entire family gathered and sat in expectation, waiting for him.

Matthew climbed into the adult sized chair, his diminutive height boosted by a couch pillow. “Hello.” he signed enthusiastically. The boy loved learning the most. Learning meant chocolate! For every letter he got right, he earned a chocolate chip. For every lesson he did well in, he got a big cookie. Alfred became so outrageously jealous after a month, he too joined in on the lessons. Neither sibling was very good yet, but they were trying exceptionally hard.

“Hello Matthew. Have you been studying?” the teacher replied in kind.

“Yes. A lot. I love chocolate.” Matthew answered in primitive manner, eyeing the plate of treats beside Papa.

The entire room gave an open mouthed expression of humour at this frank response. Everyone was taking the lessons to some degree, although Papa knew a bit more than most. So the lesson began. Everyone recited the alphabet, numbers, shapes, colours... the basics really. Dad was the only one that struggled on these, everyone else fairly experienced. Next was basic verbs and phrasings. Papa, a strong advocate for sign language since the start, handled this well. The boys fought with the newer knowledge viciously.

“The dog was running... The dog was run...” Matthew trying again and again, beginning to redden and huff in frustration. Alfred just blinked in confusion. _Damn it he just wanted that cookie_. A gentle touch from Papa grounded both the children, redirecting them to the tutor.

“The dog. Was running. Across the field.” She repeated in broken chunks, her hand motions so much more elegant.

It took twelve more tries before they got it, both children on the verge of exploding. The cookies were so close, yet so far. Finally mercy smiled upon their sugar starved souls. Dad gave each boy a whole cookie to gnaw on. Children content and smiling, the rest of the world was now ignored.

“I think that's enough for today.” The teacher lady spoke one last time in hands, before going silent and open mouthed like the rest of the world. Matthew didn't care. He had cookies now.

Below the blatant love of sweets, another energy stirred his heart. After a year of sign language tutors and fast paced home schooling, his parents were letting him go to school. Real school. The big school Alfred went to, filled with bazillions of potential new friends. Sure he was behind, stuck in Alfred's classes, but that was just fine.

Matthew was so crushingly lonely... This was his big chance to reinvent himself and become popular! He would have people to invite to his birthday parties, just like little brother. He could finally watch cartoons with subtitles on and have company. Kumanjirou didn't seem to understand TV. Matthew suspected no dog did, after trying to sign language with the family pet. It mostly licked him in response.

In three whole days, Matthew was going to be a big boy. He was going to enter kindergarten!


	2. Strange New World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Over at the Beilschmidts, things aren't going as well as they seem...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Claude: Luxembourg  
> Leanne: Belgium  
> Laurence (Lars): the Netherlands
> 
> Dialogue in italics is in Dutch unless otherwise specified.

_“I don’t want to go to school!”_

_“Laurence! You know you have to!”_

_“Don’t. Want to.”_

_“You have to understand, learning is important!”_

**_“No!”_ **

And with that pronouncement, the shortest of the siblings turned and ran off. He didn’t want to go to this ‘school’ here in this cold country that was completely strange and foreign! He missed home! He wanted to go back to the Netherlands, with all the canals and the pretty scenery and the blue skies overhead and the smell of stroopwaffels that made him always chase down the old man who drew his cart through their neighborhood—

There was no other word for it, he was homesick. Youngest of the van den Berg siblings, he didn’t want to be in this place; this cold, awful location he couldn’t even hope to pronounce in Dutch, more so English—he just wanted to go back to his friends in Amsterdam!

He wasn’t going to cry, no, he wasn’t going to do that! He’d already done that back before they were forcibly herded onto the airplane with this strange man who looked nothing like their father, yet spoke the same language that he did. No, definitely not! He didn’t want to go anywhere! It was the worst trip of his entire life—he cried for half the way before passing out exhausted in his older sister’s lap. Ugh.

_“Laurence! Would you stop running and listen to reason, please?!”_

**_“NO!”_ **

He rounded a corner and spotted an open door as he ran through—a hiding place! Quickly scooting inside it, he then looked around wildly, trying to fight off the haze of tears building up at the corners of his eyes. He could still hear his older brother’s shouting from the hallway beyond, and then made a dive for the first place he could hide in—a closet door that had been left open. He didn’t want to face his annoying older brother—he was sure that Mr Bei—Ber—Berschmict, or whatever the older man’s name was—had put him up to it.

_“Laurence!”_

He held his breath as he burrowed into the pile of clothing that he’d found inside the closet, daring not to breathe when he heard his older brother Claude’s footsteps come to a stop, before calling him yet _again,_ annoying as ever.

 _“Laurence! Where did you hide?! Don’t make me come look for you!”_ he shouted in exasperated Dutch before he heard the sounds of doors opening and closing, and then another annoyed grunt before he left the hallway, heading onward to their rooms to see if his younger brother had hidden in there.

Back to where he’d buried himself in clothes that faintly smelled of home, he allowed himself to sniffle, because why did they have to move from the familiar into the unknown? The strange word that Claude had thrown around, ‘adoption’, he thinks it’s called, scared the hell out of him. He _still_ wanted to carry their mother’s surname no matter what! Why were they here? He couldn’t understand why they had to leave.

The sniffling noise grew louder, before he let himself sob at last, releasing the gates as he finally cried under the cover of the clothes he was hiding in.

Everything was just so… weird.

It had taken Claude and Leanne several hours to find their youngest sibling hiding in one of the guest rooms in the house they now lived in, buried under a pile of clothing that they hadn’t unpacked yet. The lone sister could only sigh as she began pulling off suits and dress shirts once she’d figured out where their youngest brother liked to hide, and then handed him over to Claude, who carried the shorter on his shoulder before heading out of the room.

“Did you find him?” their adoptive father Ludwig asked with a tired sigh, and both siblings nodded. “Why did he have to throw a tantrum now, right before going to school?” he continued a few moments later, massaging the sides of his forehead.

“He—he’s been…like that, Mr Beilschmidt, didn’t you know? Ever since… we moved across from home,” Claude began with an equally exasperated sigh before handing the sleeping kid over to the older man to take. “He… he’s been upset,” the older brother adds.

“Now if he would only tell me why,” the parent added, before the oldest of the three children led the way and opened the door to the youngest’s room, watching as he stepped inside and laid the sleeping child down on the bed within.

“Best for you two to get some sleep too, all of you start school tomorrow,” he adds a few moments later, looking up to the other two who were hanging around the outside of the room. “Wouldn’t want to be sleeping in class now, would we?”

“I wouldn’t even—“ Claude began, scoffing a bit before plucking at Leanne’s hand and slowly taking her to her room. _“Come on, let’s go,”_ he tells her, slipping into their native Dutch. She pouts at him for a few moments in response, before sticking out her tongue.

 _“No way! I don’t wanna sleep yet!”_ she says in his direction. _“I don’t wanna go either.”_

 _“Leanne, please don’t make this even harder for Mr Beilschmidt than it already is,”_ Claude remarks, tilting his head at the older man inside their youngest brother’s room, pulling up a blanket around the sleeping figure. _“Laurence already gave him a headache, and you will too?”_

 _“Why are you so goody-goody. You like him because of all the dogs he has!”_ she retorts, puffing herself up in an attempt to intimidate her older brother. _“You’re going to forget about Mama, aren’t you?”_

 _“Why, I—Leanne!”_ he replies, eyes widening. _“Don’t say that! How… how dare you? Of course I wouldn’t forget Mama, but… you have to understand, he’s our parent now,”_ he tries to reason with her as they head down the hallway to the girl’s bedroom.

 _“I—look, Claude, I don’t… it’s just, I…”_ she stammers, turning away for a few moments to catch herself before she cried in front of him like her younger brother. _“ **I’m… I’m scared, okay!”**_ she finally yells at him a few moments later, biting her lip and looking away. _“I’m scared that we’re not at home in Amsterdam anymore, and I don’t know what to expect! I miss my friends too! Do you know how hard it was to say goodbye to them?!”_

He had a feeling that this argument was coming—they frequently got into disagreements over this ever since they’d been taken in by the gruff German. Claude could only sigh, before rubbing his own hands against his forehead out of frustration.

_“Leanne, listen. We… we had to leave the Netherlands for a good reason, and that’s because Mr Beilschmidt got a better job here! Weren’t you paying attention to him when he was talking with us?”_

_“No,”_ she huffed again a few moments later, looking up slightly at her older brother.

 _“I know… I know it’s been hard on you, and Laurence too, how do you think I feel? We’re all in the same boat! Think of it this way: we’re starting a new adventure here. Shouldn’t you be excited?”_ he counters, hoping that this new argument would work on her.

Squinting up into his perfect face with the fringe falling over one eye, the lone female continued to glare at him, before crossing her arms over her chest and letting out another huffy noise.

 _“Fine. **Fine**. I’ll see how this goes. But if I don’t like it, Claude, I wanna go home. Just like Laurence does,” _she says at last, and with that she turns around and enters her room, before slamming the door in his face.

“…why do they have to be so difficult,” Claude grumbles, still rubbing his forehead as he turns around and makes his way to his own bedroom across the hall from his sister’s.

Tomorrow was going to be a _**long**_ day, indeed.


	3. First Day, Worst Day

The magic of kindergarten was wearing off rapidly. Guided by Papa, He was ushered into a large brick building with Alfred. Alfred had lost his right to go off leash the moment he could run, always bolting off. Alfred wiggled and puffed, pulling like an untrained dog on his back mounted pack leash. No doubt he was whining again. Matthew had been a good boy today, earning the right to be lead by holding Papa's bigger hand.

There was at least five kids in the hall leading to a colourful classroom. Some of them were red faced or bawling as parents tried to pry them off. Others were like Alfred, more than eager to enter the space. They all flapped their hands and mouths like great ungainly birds, silent as ever.

Regret like a wave, it washed over Mattie and threatened to drown him. Why did he agreed to this? Maybe he was better off lonely at home? Maybe he was... But there was no more time for maybe. Papa was already helping him out of his backpack. It was the best backpack, with a white bunny picture on the front. It seemed there was one other child with fashion sense like him, an identical bag hung on a low hook. Smiling, Matthew hung his bunny bag next to the other bunny bag. Now both bags looked better.

“Behave, okay?” Papa signed to him, already retreating from whence they came.

“Don't leave me here.” Mattie gestured frantically.

“You'll be okay dear.” Papa promised, kissing him on the brow.

After a lightning exchange of introductions in sounds Mattie would never hear, Papa had abandoned him in this colourful learning prison. Mattie tried to leave through the only known door, but a kindly looking teacher stopped him with a leg.

“No running off now.” The teacher had written on a card, seemingly in preparation for this outcome. Matthew drooped sadly, trapped in this unknown world without guidance. Alfred had promised to help, but he looked so busy. The charismatic legal sibling was surrounded by his peers, thriving in this silent hellish chaos.

Still, Mattie promised he would try to play along with things. He swallowed his looming terror and tried to act normal. It wasn't like the weird teacher was intentionally ignoring him after all. She was writing a lot of things down when she could, and stopping by to ask if he was 'getting things' via cards.

She didn't understand anything. She didn't know the isolation Matthew was suffering right now. It was obvious more effort was being exerted on teaching the other non-deaf children. Why wouldn't that be the case? There was more of the others over his own kind. Maybe Matthew was the only deaf kid in this _whole_ school. That thought was a troubling one.

Matthew was a good boy. He wouldn't complain. It was clear in this situation he simply wasn't... wasn't important enough...

Pretending to pay attention, a very depressed Matthew swept the room for visual objects of interest. There was a lot of learning posters and bright colours about, but not many toys to distract himself. There was only one other dismal creature not entranced by the teacher's antics.

It was a shaggy blonde like him, banished to a corner after visually mocking and challenging the teacher. Well, misery did love company. Matthew fully ignored classes now, approaching the intriguing subject at his red plastic kiddie table.

"Hello." Matthew greeted, via pressing a written on paper at the unknown boy. He was just as miserable as he looked, blatantly shunning the other children. The new kid looked at him quizzically, reading the paper in confusion. Matthew repeated himself, by pointing at the same greeting again.

Finally, the other one seemed to clue in. He wrote a quick “Hi.” back. A hopeful idea sprang to Matthew's desperate mind. Maybe... Maybe this boy knew what sounds were, enough to help him.

Matthew answered in messy looping letters, then pointed to the chalk board. "U no wat lady is talk about?"

The other boy's response was short and heart wrenching. "Uh... no. She's scary. And stupid." The word 'stupid' was written with particular malice, in large silly manner.

“Doomed.” Matthew wrote, once more on the verge of tears.

"What... 'doomed' mean?" The other boy wrote curiously, tucking his hair behind his ears to see better. This revealed rather pretty green eyes. Matthew decided there and then he liked them, like pretty shiny rocks.

“Bad.” Matthew noted simply, then decided it wasn't enough. “Bad bad.” He repeated, underlining it with two colours.

"Very bad?" the other one wrote, looking up for approval after.

Matthew nodded sagely, starting to enjoy the socialization. "Yes. Very bad. I not understand her."

"Why ca... ~~waarom snapt ze het niet~~  can... not understand her?" The other scratched back, the crossed-out words nonsense to Matthew's violet eyes.

“I deaf.” This simple reply seemed to stir an array of emotions in the other boy's face. Anger, puffy and red. Confusion, fleeting as it scrunched his pale face. He wrote furiously in more nonsense, then seemed to realize he was not making English words.

The previous mess on the back of the page was scribbled out with a hot orange crayon, replaced by one line. “Why you in this school? They not know?”

"Fancy school too ekpensife." Mattie answered, completely giving on the word 'expensive'. That word was too hard. On the verge of frustrated tears for an hour now, Mattie bit his lip and elaborated. “Try so hard, no word to reed."

The most wonderful grouping of words formed as the boy wrote back, his expression scrunched in concentration. "I... I could write what she say. For you?"

"Pease, need help with learning" Matthew wrote with trembling hands, wanting to hug the stranger turned best friend. Papa had told Mattie, a rather prolific cuddler, that some people might not appreciate being touched.

"I try. No pro – swe – ~~ik beloof het~~  I'm Dutch, my English... kinda bad?" More nonsense letters from the boy, but Matthew was over the moon. He smiled hard, dimpled like his actor Papa with a splash of freckles.

"Good enuff 4 me. I'm Matthew."

The rest of the class was fun and joyful. Alfred utterly failed to help Matthew all day, possessing the attention span of a fly. That was just fine. The other boy named Lars was just as fun. Wherever the formerly sulking boy went, Matthew followed. More importantly, Lars didn't seem to grow tired of his sudden companion. They barely paid attention to the teacher at all, often distracted by drawing and communicating.

Matthew couldn't be happier, certain he had made a new buddy. Now _he_ was popular just like Alfred. The fun only came to an end when parents arrived to collect their little ones. A new crisis emerged.

Lars was flopping about on the floor, changing colours in silent rage. His bunny backpack was strewn to the side from anger, stuffed with things identical to Mattie's own bag. Lars' father appeared at a loss, unable to console his exploding child. The teacher tapped on Matthew's shoulder, showing a written card. “Help look for Laurence's bag.”

Matthew had no idea who this Laurence was, but Lars was clearly distraught. Setting to work, Matthew pulled the unhappy boy off the floor. This action reduced his silent tantrum to mere tears. “I help!” Matthew wrote on the wall next to them with a marker, earning a scowl from the teacher.

Lars nodded solemnly and put his own back pack on. The boys looked. They looked and looked and looked again. They couldn't seem to find whatever Lars desperately needed. Truthfully, Matthew didn't know what that item was. Maybe it was a series of items?

Papa finally stopped them as they began digging through the colouring supplies on their quest. “You both have the same bag.” He signed, already smiling in open mouthed silent mirth. Papa must be laughing about something.

“What?” Mathew signed back, not understanding. Papa helped take the awesome bunny back pack off, then zipped it open. A stuffed bunny was pulled out from within. “Wow! How did you do that Papa!?” the wheaten blonde asked in amazement. Was Papa a magician as well as an actor?

“Just... get ready to go.” Papa ordered, breaking up his own sentence to laugh silently again. Lars mean while hugged the stuffed bunny toy with relief. He didn't need words to express his gratitude to Papa or Matthew.

Mattie finally made a friend!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Huggiebird for correcting the crossed-out Dutch words Lars was rambling about!
> 
> * Waarom snapt ze het niet: Why doesn't (can't) she understand?  
> ** Ik beloof het: I promise


	4. You Bunny Believe It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The day is filled with bunnies. No exceptions.

It was a struggle to leave the Beilschmidt household that morning.

While Claude and Leanne had managed to get out of bed just fine to prepare themselves and face their first breakfast of the school year, it…wasn’t the same story for the youngest of the siblings. They could hear the tantrum from upstairs, and the girl visibly flinched as she heard the older man trying to admonish the source of the bawling noise to keep quiet and get in the bathroom.

 _“He’s still not over it, is he,”_ she asked her older brother quietly, poking at the potato pancakes that had been heaped onto their plates. If there was one thing that Mr Beilschmidt was good at, it was cooking—although they didn’t know yet that he tended to favor potatoes a little too much over everything else. Well, that and bratwurst—if it was available.

Shaking his head, the oldest then poked at the serving in front of him, before slicing it with his fork and popping a piece into his mouth. After a few moments of silence, he spoke up.

 _“You should try it, they’re actually rather tasty. It’s like stamppot, only without the vegetables and the sausage… we’ll survive,”_ he replied quietly as he returned his attention to the food in front of him, eating quietly as the sound of yelling gave way to another round of crying before they heard the slam of a door echo through the house.

“He’s… mad?” she tried, this time in English, looking up at the ceiling and imagining how much of a tantrum the youngest was throwing right now. Fork hovering with a generous helping of the potato pancake, she looked over at Claude, who was halfway done with his share.

“He’s got to be. I mean… I know Laurence has thrown a temper but… not this bad,” he answered a few moments later. Even if they couldn’t hear the sounds of splashing, they could take a really good guess as to what was happening upstairs.

Both siblings continued to eat their breakfast in silence, only looking up roughly twenty minutes later as they heard footsteps—well, one set of footsteps and a skidding pair, obviously thrashing against the pull force of the other. Leanne couldn’t help but bite back a smirk at the sight of their youngest brother, all trussed up and properly dressed with a starched shirt and those…ridiculous-looking shorts! Heck, even the mismatched socks looked kinda adorable on him!

 _“Aww, he looks so adorable!”_ she said in the direction of her brothers, which earned a moment of snorted laughter from Claude, and what the best equivalent of a ‘withering glare’ that Laurence could give her.

“How… how did it go, Mr Beilschmidt?” Claude asked tentatively, pushing his chair back and getting up from the table before heading over to the island counter where two paper bags and one colorful lunchbox in muted orange tones stood waiting for their respective owners to take.

“Badly,” was all the older man could sigh, before looking over at the third plate of potato pancakes and letting out a tired sigh. If the child hadn’t thrown two more tantrums while they were in the bathroom, then they’d have enough time for him to eat his breakfast and not rush.

“Get your lunches and let’s go, we’re running late,” Ludwig said in the girl’s direction with an exasperated sigh. “Claude, can you please get your brother’s lunch box for me?”

The girl then left the table and made a beeline for the island counter, grabbing the other paper bag and sincerely hoping that the food inside had some meat in it—anything as long as it wasn’t potato overload. The oldest then reached for the lunch box as well, taking his own paper bag in his left hand before passing the container to Ludwig.

A few deft motions later, the third plate was no longer occupied by said pancakes, instead having been tucked into the lunch box that now rested in the older man’s free hand.

“Go on, let’s go, we’re running late!” he barked at them, watching as the two older children stood there, waiting for further instruction. A few more exchanged words between Claude and Leanne, and both were scrambling for the front door before Ludwig had time to blink.

 _“Why can’t you be like your siblings,”_ he grumbled in barely-audible German as he then hauled the youngest to the front door—still kicking and trying to break free of the older man’s strong hold.

The drive to the preschool was rather uneventful—what with Claude riding shotgun that left Leanne and Laurence to sit together in the back. No matter how hard she tried to talk to her younger brother, it was like talking to a brick wall. Instead she looked over at him, staring out the window and completely ignoring everything else around him.

While she couldn’t understand half of what Mr Beilschmidt and her older brother were talking about, she turned to face the mirror and gave Claude a knowing look, before turning her attention away. Hoping that the other got the hint, she then did exactly what her younger brother was doing: staring out the window mindlessly and ignoring the scenery that flew by.

It felt like an eternity, but the vehicle finally ground to a halt in front of a brick building. Seeing that there were several other cars parked haphazardly in the waiting area, the green station wagon’s engine then stopped, before Ludwig made a singular motion and grunted, “Claude, can you help me with..?” he asked the oldest, who quickly understood, turning to face his sister with an apologetic look in the eyes before stealing a glance at their youngest sibling. Even if Leanne didn’t want to go, she knew she had to follow—did she have any other choice in the matter?

Grumbling, she then forced her way out and grabbed her own bag, slinging it over her shoulders before going around to her younger brother’s side of the car and opening the door.

What she was _not_ expecting, however, was to be met with a small puddle of drool as he came tumbling out into her hold! Letting out an indignant shriek, she then turned to face Claude, who was now laughing and waving in her direction, before telling her, _“Hurry, we’re going to be late! I’ll stay in the car and wait for you,”_ he said her way, holding back his laughter as she began to screech in all manner of awkward, distorted screeching.

 _“Laurence, wake up! Eww, you drooled all over my hands!”_ she grumbled in Dutch, shaking her younger brother awake. When he didn’t rise (and instead gave a particularly loud snore in response) she then began shaking him awake.

 _“Laurence! We’re already here!”_ she continued to half-grumble, half-screech, trying to hold back her disgust at the drool on her hands as she continued trying to shake him awake. Grumbling, she then called for the adult’s help, trying to catch up to the German’s long strides as she half-dragged, half-carried her younger brother with her.

“He—sleep,” she said, all out of breath as she finally climbed the stairs into the school and caught up with Ludwig. Just as the parent turned to take the younger brother from her hold, he then yawned a few times—before catching sight of that blank, expressionless face in front of him.

And he then promptly began to cause another wailing riot as he half-kicked, half-thrashed in an attempt to wiggle away from the man.

Several minutes of coaxing, pleading, and borderline blackmailing later, Ludwig had successfully managed to drop off his youngest at the colorful room. He was pretty sure he was going to go deaf much earlier in life than his own father did; what with all the yowling, yelling and outright tantrum-throwing that he endured before managing to get out of the blindingly bright learning area. Sticking a finger into his ear, he looked down at the catty Leanne, who’d just finished waving goodbye at her younger brother.

“Hurry up, I have to drop you two off,” he said with a tired sigh, before shepherding the young girl down and out of the building—passing by a pair of equally exasperated parents who were accompanied by two children. One of the children seemed to be hanging onto one parent by some sort of leash—while the other boy was literally hiding behind the other man’s pants.

While he paid it no mind (at least for now), little did he know that he was going to get to know these two particular parents much more in the weeks to come.

This place was… it was…

**Scary.**

Surrounded by colors he knew the name of—only in the wrong language—he had to be herded to the front when it came to the point where all the kids introduced themselves. It was here he decided to go down fighting.

 _“I’m not a Berschmict, my last name is van den Berg!”_ he half-yelled in front of the entire class, causing most of the kids to go silent and stare at him in shock. While the teacher had been warned earlier that one of the children in her care only had a basic understanding of English, she wasn’t expecting it to be _this_ one, the one who’d completely rambled off in some language that sounded much like German, but not quite so.

“I’m sorry, but— _what did you say?_ ” she said in his direction, a dangerously sweet smile on her face. While he couldn’t understand what she was mostly saying, he took it as a cue to re-introduce himself.

 ** _“My last name… is van den Berg!”_** he said defiantly, crossing his arms and huffing, looking over the crowd of other children who were silently gaping at him. Mostly because they couldn’t understand what he was saying.

That earned him a trip to the ‘time-out corner’, whatever that meant.

Sat down at a plastic chair with a matching, ugly red table, most of the words flew over his head before the scary lady walked off to talk to the rest of the assembled children near the center of the room. His mood was sour enough he could spoil milk if he stared at a glass hard enough. While it was true his understanding of English was horrible at best, nothing beat the sheer stupidity of the way he’d been thrown out of the group of children.

So he sat there, glaring at everything. The colors were too bright, the sounds were too foreign, everything was such a mess—at least, until he felt the press of something light catch his attention. Looking down at it, he saw that there was another who’d walked over to where he’d been banished. Eyebrows going up in confusion, he then takes a look at the other blonde boy, before feeling the press of the paper against his arm again.

Taking the hint, he quickly searched the ugly desk for a crayon—and after finding one, writes a word back on it.

“Hi.”

Time had passed by too quickly, and it was time for them to eat their morning snacks. Since he was still ‘banished’ at the table, the orange lunch box had been brought over to where he was, set down with a pointed look his way before he was left alone.

Thankfully, Lars _wasn’t_ alone, since the quiet boy from earlier joined him at the same table, carrying a lunch box that had—he had to take another look before pointing at it mutely, his mouth opening like a dead fish. The other boy—Matthew, he remembered the other kid writing that down for his name—looked at him with a curious eye. Remembering that the other couldn’t hear him, he looked for a clean piece of paper and grabbed the stubby hot-orange crayon before scribbling a single word down on it:

_‘Konijntje.’_

He then pressed the paper to Matthew’s hands, before pointing at the white animal that pranced around the other kid’s lunchbox in an endless pattern of soft whiteness, before pointing back at the word he wrote down.

‘I—what?’ was the reply back, and it isn’t until a few moments later does he remember that he wrote down ‘rabbit’, but in Dutch.

‘I sorry. _Konijntje_ is rabbit, in Dutch,’ he scribbled back excitedly, the letters coming out a jumble before quickly passing the paper to Matthew and awaiting the other’s reaction.

It was like a light had flicked on in the other kid’s brain. Now that he had the English equivalent, he wrote a reply down as well, the loopy handwriting almost going off the paper.

‘Yes, rabbit. They… soft. Fwu—fr— **F L U F F Y** ’, was what Lars read on the paper, the last word spaced out and emphasized with the crayon he was using.

They continued their silent way of talking, their food mostly forgotten.

It was time for them to go home, and he was…very upset. Where was the bunny that Mama made for him?!

He continued to look through the bunny backpack he had, but there was nothing. No sign of the soft friend that his mother had made for him back then. If he lost it, then he would’ve lost the last connection he had with her!

Where. Was. It?!

Biting his lip, he tried so hard not to burst out crying or throw another tantrum as he continued to shove the things inside roughly out of the way, before not seeing it. He could swear he put it in there just this morning! Unable to voice out his frustration, he then threw the bag to the floor and did what he apparently does the best: throw a tantrum.

Maybe it was lucky Matthew couldn’t hear him screaming and crying his head off in Dutch, sniveling as he rambled on and on about the plush bunny that he always had with him. Like a security blanket, only fluffier and cuter. It was at this time the parents had come to pick up their children, and the trouble was spotted, most of the other kids giving the yowling one a wide space to thrash around in peace.

 _“I can’t find it! I lost it!”_ he cried, and knowing that Mr Beilschmidt could understand half of the words well, the parent was quick to approach the teacher and explain the situation. The child was still throwing a fit on the floor, howling about how important it was to him, about how it was a gift from his Mama, about how—

A soft touch on his shoulder made him look up—straight into those light-violet eyes of his friend. Matthew’s eyes looked really pretty. After seeing the words written on the wall (to which the scary lady scowled) they began looking through the bag again.

It isn’t until another blonde, one who Lars thinks is Matthew’s father, ‘talks’ to him in gestures. Remembering that the other kid was deaf, he looked on in silent confusion, before—before the rabbit, the one he was looking for, _magically appeared._

While he couldn’t understand the older man’s words, he hung onto the rabbit like it was a lifeline, and just gave a big sniffling noise as his way of showing his gratitude.


	5. Child's Play

Francis stood by the oven proudly. He had to, because guests were coming over soon. It was the most momentous hosting event of his entire life, even greater than his acting career. Matthew was going to have a friend over. It was the very first, ever, in the history of Matthew's life.

Of course, Matthew begged for two weeks to have this event. Arthur had sternly refused at first, slow to trust other parents and their offspring. After starting to do well in school, the salty father finally caved to his son's wishes.

With little Alfred and Arthur away at a ball pit party, the house was typically eerily silent. Francis, forever a diva, was loathe to admit he was scared for his son. His little precious snowflake didn't make any noise. Both parents were forever stressed, searching for one ghost of a son. Alfred was so loud and rebellious, he countered Matthew's silence. Alfred had run off in stores so often he lost the privilege to go off leash. Matthew was generally better, but sometimes became absorbed in a toy or object.

Everything had to be perfect. Perfect little snacks for perfect little children, and – **CLANG!** There was a clatter of sound from upstairs. Francis jumped a little in his skin, not used to sounds from the quiet one. Breath hitching in terror, the fabulously dressed parent ran upstairs.

“Matthew! Matthew!” Francis called out in instinct. Certainly, his oldest couldn't hear it. Alfred usually did and assisted in the search. Racing up the stairs, he arrived in the boy's shared room. The book shelf was pulled down, books and clutter all over the floor. “Matthew! Are you okay!? Are you hurt?” he called out thoughtlessly.

The happy little boy pushed out from underneath the figurative rubble. With grim determination, Matthew dusted himself off and began piling the books in neat stacks. He was on a mission, one he barely stopped to talk about. “Busy getting bricks.” The boy signed impatiently.

“Bricks for what?” Francis replied, crouching to meet eye level.

“I'm going to make a bunny castle with Lars.”

Francis raised his brows in confused surprise that only parents could know. “Bunny castle?”

“I drew up castle plans.” Matthew was quick to retrieve a marker drawing of... a bird cage with a bow tie on it? Francis had no idea what it was, but it was just precious. “This. This is where the flamethrowers are. Alfred will live in that tower. This part, Lars lives in. That's where the bunny king is.” Matthew seemed to think this whole thing through. He gestured with passion to different parts of the strange picture.

“Bunny king?” Francis answered skeptically, still lost.

“We both want to be bunny king, but I'm okay with taking turns. Maybe we can have two king chairs. And a bunny king pool.”

“.. and what do bunny kings do?” The imaginations of children were something else. Magical, unfathomable, but difficult to follow.

“Magic powers! Obviously. How else will we stop the dragons?” The child went on, returning to stacking books like bricks.

“Right. Don't want to burn the cookies.” Francis didn't understand any of this, and had no plans to. Glee once more put a bounce in the father's step. He couldn't be bothered to discipline Mattie over the bookshelf thing. It was honestly Arthur's job to get upset over little things. Parenting really numbed a person after the first two years.

The cookies couldn't be more perfectly timed. The guest of honour arrived, apparently chaperoned by a blonde beefcake of a magazine cover. Francis was married, but _damn_ he looked sometimes. “You are not Mr. Kirkland.” Mr. Beilschmidt, a tall wall of muscles, greeted Francis stiffly. Light blue eyes like gems on that one. If Francis wasn't a taken man...

“I'm Arthur's better half, We're common-law. Mr. Bonnefoy. Just charmed to meet you. And who's this little man?” Francis greeted with a perfect hair swish. It would be a cruelty not to share his charisma with others.

“I'm Lars.” The green eyed little boy replied softly, squeezing a stuffed bunny for all it was worth.

“So you're Lars. Mattie has been talking all about you.”

“He has?” The boy asked curiously.

“He talks all the time. Such a chatter bug.” Francis assured him with a television worthy smile. “I'll fetch him.” Heading upstairs, Mattie was still hard at work gathering building materials for his imaginary castle. The boy noticed him in the doorway, looking hopeful. The expression was worth everything in the world after seeing the child so alone for so long.

“Lars is here.” The signed words sparked Mattie into a bolt of energy. He zipped past Francis, followed by his loyal Kumajirou. The dog lost it's mind as obviously as Mattie, entranced by dog hair on visitors.

“Behave. We have guests.” Francis scolded his son via sign language. Mattie paused, waved to Lar's father, than excitedly tugged a shyly smiling Lars upstairs.

Mystery dad raised his browse in surprise as he crouched and petted the happy dog. “Your son is deaf?”

“Last time I checked.” Francis joked lightly.

“Lars never said anything about that. I'm... surprised.” Mr. Beilschmidt muttered, standing to wipe white fur off his pants. “I'm sure Gilbert told you about Lars's allergies. This bag has his clothes, and an epi-pen. He's very allergic to almonds. He can't even touch them.”

“Of... Of course.” Francis felt like an idiot. He had spent so much time aggressively bragging how amazing his own son was, that they never even talked about the impending sleepover. It couldn't helped, with Gilbert's obnoxious pride and charms. Lars was _not_ the cutest little boy in the entire universe. Matthew clearly was, and Gilbert was mistaken. The brother of Lar's father was almost as arrogant as Francis, but twice as incorrect. Or so Francis himself believed.

This justification didn't fix the fact that Francis made coconut shrimp puffs and almond cookies for sleep over snacks. In disgust and self defeat, the proud chef crumbled to the conveniences of the city. “I was going to order pizza but I didn't know how picky Lars is.”

“He's going to want hot peppers, but he won't eat them. He just likes the colour orange. He doesn't understand that the colour orange is not an independent flavour... because child logic.” The clearly exhausted dad sighed towards the end, looking at wit's end.

“Does this include crayons?” Francis knew exactly what the expression was. Alfred was still in his sticker obsession stage. Stickers had been steam peeled off the walls four times now.

“Yes.” Mr. Beilschmidt replied flatly.

Another trip upstairs it seemed. Francis swiftly plucked the three orange crayons from Matthew's colouring supplies, then dashed downstairs. “Well, not to worry. Your boy will be safe.” He assured, showing the crayons in his hands.

There was a long pause, then a bare beginning of a smile. It was short lived on the gruff parent's face. “Good. I have to go home see what's getting broken.”

Francis wondered what the other parent was even talking about, then remembered. Mr. Beilschmidt had adopted three children some time ago, with Lars being the youngest. How he had the intestinal fortitude for such a life was unknown. Hopefully the man's brother was pulling some of the load. Finally, the dog was peeled off the man as he returned to once he came. Arms akimbo, the dazzling Francis was determined to make this the best sleep over.

Step one, of course, was hiding away the almond cookies that could kill his guest.

The bunny castle was under attack by the great white dragon. With the flame thrower tower unmanned, the dragon was practically walking in the entrance. Retreating deeper the stone hallways, Matthew the great wizard looked for his companion. Sir Lars the badass was grievously wounded near the now evacuated kitchen area. He was bleeding heavily, though his blood was money. He bled money... just because he wanted it to, that's why!

Rivulets of change slipping through his fingers, Lars clutched at his gruesome chest wound. “I can't make it.” He confessed via royal scroll, dropping the sacred red-that's-almost-orange crayon. “You will! The kingdom ~~depents~~ depends on you!” Matthew wrote back tearfully, bloodied warrior in his poofy wizard sleeved arms. The cracked open armour was practically green with paper bills as Lars struggled to breathe.

“Take the bunny crown. Serve my people well.” Lars scribbled hastily, then lay still. “I am dead.” he wrote messily, peeking make sure he had formed his vowels right. He then flopped back on the floor, deceased and withered. Matthew clutched at open air in grief and anger. “I will ~~avange~~ avenge you!” He wrote, showing it to the still dead champion of the realm. The dead knight gave a thumbs up while laying still.

An omen of the gods themselves. The most powerful wizard of all time removed the bunny eared crown off the corpse with grace, putting it upon his head. The mighty mantle of king was heavy, encrusted with gold and red stones. He stood in pose, gathering magic for his most powerful spell yet.

This was it, the final show down with the tyrant dragon of Kumajirou. Blue acidic fire rippling with white lightning poured down the hall. The pearly scaled nuzzle of the massive beast was now in sight, sharp teeth bared. Another thunderous shaking as the stone structure began to fail! Matthew drew a picture of lightning, casting a friendship coloured lightning bolt at the monster. What colour was friendship, one might ask? Any colour you wanted it to be.

The dragon shrugged off the spell as it crackled in the air – The chunk of blue crayon bounced off Kumajirou's face. The happy dog finally knocked over the stacked wall of dad's books, kissing both boys senseless. Matthew huffed little breathes in joy as he tried to wiggle away, trapped by Papa's very soft house coat.

“We dead!” Lars wrote, an equally giggly mess on the floor. Matthew calmed after a moment, laying in the scattered ruins of their imaginary castle. It took up most of the shared bedroom at this point, built from Dad's legal work books as well as Alfred's dinosaur books.

Lars rolled onto his bell that still had fake money taped to it. He scrunched his face in concentration, not very good at the English he wrote. “We. Are friends.” Matthew nodded and smiled in agreement then grabbed the paper.

“We are friends.” Matthew signed back, mystifying his new buddy. Matthew repeated himself, pointing to each word after he showed it.

“Friend.” Lars finally signed, speaking for the first time in Matthew's silent existence. The deaf child nodded in delight, hugging his new pal on the floor. After playing for a long time, eating a pizza, then playing some more, both boys were sleepy. With a wide yawn, Matthew climbed onto his bed. He helped up Lars, who seemed more hesitant. The messy haired child ripped the fake paper money with a dollar sign off his chest and wrote. “Are we allowed, sleep on same bed?”

“Yes. Bunnies sleep where they want.” Matthew answered, though an most anxious thought laced his young mind. Did Lars not want to share the bed? Alfred's was probably really gross. He just stopped peeing himself only two months ago. Daddy didn't want him telling people that for some reason.

Lars smiled bashfully, the barest hint of a blush. “Okay.” he answered, laying with Matthew. It was quite a task to get under the giant house coat, but it was divinely fluffy and warm. Finally, the two cuddled together in sleep, passing out cold.

It was quiet, too quiet even for Matthew. Francis stirred from his TV coma down stairs, setting aside the glass of red wine. He supposed he should make sure the kids were alright. Knowing his little ball of sunshine, It was safe to assume Matthew was fast asleep. He typically never made it to late night hours. Alfred was far worse, always crying and finicky as a little baby. He still woke up sometimes, even if it was mercifully less common.

On soft steps, The parent peered into the lit upstairs bedroom. The dog was asleep on Matthew's bed, both boys a singular lump under one of Francis's designer house coats. Their slow breaths indicated deep slumber. Francis hitched a breath at the sheer preciousness of the moment, two heads of wild blonde hair poking out the top. They looked so serene amidst the chaos of books in the room.

With a graceful smirk, the proud father began picking up all the legal journals that had been stolen from Arthur's office. It didn't take long to tidy up, since Francis merely kicked Matthew's doodled on papers into a heap. The sensitive creature would lose his rare temper if either parent messed with his “records” again.

Ten minutes after Francis was finished, Arthur returned. He seemed to have survived ball pit hell, but only just. Alfred was out cold, slung over a shoulder by the frazzled father. “Bloody hell Francis, I'm so glad to be back.” He complained, forever a silly pessimist.

Francis silenced that loud mouth with a kiss, clearly a passionate gesture. Blushing, Arthur pushed him away. “Be quiet. Everyone is asleep upstairs.” Francis warned. Arthur nodded, going upstairs with ginger care to put Alfred in bed. A few minutes later, the sandy blonde man was back down stairs. In his hands was all the crayon words the two barely literate children had exchanged. Being able to look over past conversations was one of the notable benefits of deaf children.

“Let's see what my boy was up to.” Arthur proposed, sitting with a glass of brandy himself. The two parents settled on the couch with drinks in hand, sorting the many papers into chronological order. Mattie and his new friend had talked profusely, despite not knowing many words.

Most of it was silly games about a bunny kingdom, economics involving candy, and a white dragon based off the dog. Both parents were utterly lost by the subjects, merely skimming them. What was more interesting was the serious conversation in between. With great interest, Francis read over a section. It was unclear who was talking most of the time since they shared crayon colours.

_R U ok?_

_Yes. Fell, but ok._

_Play more?_

_No. hungry._

_I'm hungry too._

_Pizza!_

_PIZZA!_

_YAY!_

_Lars?_

_Yes?_

_I'm have fun with U._

_I have fun too. : )_

_Was lonely before, but now I'm not._

_Me too. Canada scary. Miss old home._

_Where is old home?_

_Far. Very big far, across ~~osheann~~ ~~OSean~~ o c e a n._

_Ocean is big._

_BIG._

_Rawr!_

The conversation was as heart warming as it was fragmented. Both parents smiled as they read it, some words harder to read than others. Accompanying the conversation was atrocious pictures, nothing really represented by what the labels promised. After a long moment, both parents set the literal transcripts down.

“I think Matthew will be okay.” Arthur sighed in relief. Francis pressed a silent smile into Arthur's shoulder, understanding completely. Constantly worry needling away at your sanity. Was Matthew going to be okay, socializing with other kids? Finally, at least according to these notes, he would.


	6. Desperate Measures

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's gotten himself into trouble. Or maybe it's not even trouble in the long run...?

Honestly, they were at their wits’ end.

The leaves had long since turned over from their red and orange colors. The trees gave way to the bare branches of hibernating and white, cold snow. Almost two months had passed since school had started. While most of the children were making strides in their learning progress, there were some that didn’t seem to be making any progress at all.

Matthew, sweet, innocent little Matthew Bonnefoy was having some difficulty keeping up with the workload. This was thanks to the defiant little brat that always hung around, helping him keep up. Thanks to Lars ‘taking things into his own hands’, he would stay near the wheaten blonde, always scribbling down words as fast as his hands could write them. Matthew never minded if they were spelled wrong from time to time.

He’d gotten into this habit of interrupting the ‘scary lady’ whenever she was going too fast, talking about colors and shapes and what-have-you; and while it was completely normal for him to do that to help his friend, well…

His own learning progress had come to a standstill.

All because he wanted to help the other catch up. It was all a noble cause, the right thing to do—at least, until things had gotten rather…violent this one time.

It wasn’t his fault—some of the other kids had gotten quite annoyed with the way that Lars would constantly interrupt the teacher so that he could ask her to go slower. He couldn’t keep up with how fast the lady was going, despite having to handle a classroom full of kids. This, paired with the fact that his knowledge of English was still rather lacking, caused quite a ruckus with some of the other children.

During the little riot, Lars would’ve gotten away with poking someone in the eye and biting another one of the kids had he not gotten caught. At the same time, though, some of the other children were harassing Matthew, so of course as his self-assigned ‘duty’ to be Matthew’s ‘knight in bunny armor’ he had to go defend the snowpuff of a child.

It got him a black eye for the effort, but to his own little mind, he’d defended Matthew’s honor as best as he could! Nobody was to make fun of his friend! Not even his friend’s younger brother!

So when the time came that he had to bring home a letter asking for his father (or in his head, a father-figure—nobody would ever replace Wilhelm, no matter how dastardly his birth father was) to come to school the next day, he was… a little worried. Was it his fault that the other children had decided to gang up on him for what he was doing? Was it his fault that he wanted to help out Matthew so much the other didn’t fall behind in their lessons?

_**Definitely not.** _

He couldn’t comprehend why he was here, in the room, after class hours had ended—and his father-figure was talking with the scary lady. Adding onto that, there were several other adults in the room—one he recognized to be Matthew’s father, one Mr Bon—Bunn—Bunnyfwah, if he got that right—was right there with his father figure. So much butchering had been done, Lars had decided to shorten the German’s surname to Mr B, at least in his head.

While most of the English words went over his head, he couldn’t help but notice how both older men were casting glances at him every so often before turning back to face the scary lady—he knew that Matthew had been picked up, along with the tangentially louder younger brother by _another_ man who had impossibly-thick caterpillars growing out of his forehead. He took a guess that the other man was a relative of theirs, much like how Mr B had the cool, white-haired, red-eyed ‘uncle Gilbert’ as a sibling.

Boy, how wrong he was.

Over where the adults were talking, they made sure to lower their voices the moment they caught the lone child still seated on one of the plastic chairs in the room staring at them. The teacher, while normally very sprightly and engaged looked ready to cry out of sheer frustration.

“Mr Beilschmidt,” she began again, raising her hands to massage her forehead, “…just how much of a problem child is Laurence?”

Never one to be taken aback by such accusations, Ludwig cleared his throat slightly. He knew that at home, his youngest had a tendency to avoid him, only speaking with his siblings when needed—but noticeably avoiding his older brother if and when he’d spoken to Claude before that.

“He’s quite a bit to handle, I’ll admit,” the tired parent began at last, shooting a concerned stare over at where his youngest was now trying to reach behind him for his backpack. “He’s always been a fussy child. While his older siblings are getting used to living here just fine, it’s like—it’s like he doesn’t want to be here. At least, that’s what his older brother tells me.”

“Is he homesick?” she continued, looking over at where the child was now digging through his bag, looking for something and finally pulling out a stuffed bunny rabbit before haphazardly tossing everything back inside. All the while he was shooting the adults in the room wary glances, before returning to hug the rabbit for all it was worth. 

“It—it wasn’t my fault we had to move away from Europe. I received a better job offer here. Things would’ve been worse if we all stayed where we came from. I’ve been trying to reach out to him, but… he’s proving to be rather stubborn in that regard,” Ludwig continued with a barely-perceptible sigh. Honestly, he didn’t know what to do anymore at this point.

Thankfully, Mr Bonnefoy was there to save the day. With as much charisma as the next hair shampoo commercial model, he cleared his throat.

“If I may, Mr Beilschmidt. My own little Matthew tells me that if it wasn’t for your son, he’d have been lagging very far behind,” Francis spoke up. “You see, if it wasn’t for Lars—or Laurence, if that’s what his real name is—then my own little angel would’ve been so very far behind and would have a difficult time catching up.”

“He—he does that?” the German exclaimed out of surprise, turning to face the painfully French father.

“ _All the time_. Whenever little Matthew comes home, he’s very excited to tell us what he’s learned from school—all thanks to your little troublemaker—forgive me if I overstepped,” he added smoothly a few moments later.

“…sometimes I think that’s what he’s just doing, getting himself into trouble,” the other man said with another exasperated sigh. “I don’t know if he’s doing this intentionally or not—“

“But, fact of the matter remains, he helps my son out, doesn’t he? At least it’s a win-win situation…wouldn’t you think so?” Francis continued in the direction of the teacher, practically oozing charisma at that point.

“What do you suggest, then?” the other father asked, wringing his hands and looking over to where Laurence—well, Lars, if one wanted to be correct—currently sat, swinging his legs and hanging onto the plush rabbit while waiting for his father to finish up so that they could get out of here and go home. God, he hated waiting.

“Well—much as I wouldn’t want to—well, admit it, Mr Bonnefoy—“ she began at last.

“Please, call me Francis.”

“Well, Francis, I wanted to ask—why did you choose to send your son here, if you’re full aware that he’s deaf?” she asked the other, lowering her voice.

“Ah. Expenses. The special school for children like him is out of our…current budget, if you may. I was hoping his younger brother would help him, but—“

“…that wouldn’t seem to be the case, you know. Alfred’s literally sugar embodied. Leave him alone and he’s bouncing off the walls, louder than anyone else among the group of children. But my goodness, he’s very enthusiastic when it comes to learning about food,” she added with a bit of a smirk.

“Can you blame my little boy? He… _he has quite the appetite,_ ” the Frenchman replied, a bit of a smirk on his face. “Always wanting to eat dessert before dinner. Thankfully Arthur takes care of discipline at the table. I merely do the cooking.”

“But—what does this have to do with my son?” Ludwig interrupted them, desperate to get the topic back on track. “Where does Laurence fit in all of this?”

“See—Ludwig, if you hadn’t noticed, your son behaves whenever he’s around mine. I wanted to suggest to have him drop by whenever we call over the sign-language teacher we’ve hired for him. Maybe your son can learn how to sign, so that he can talk better with my Matthew? And then in return, I would ask him to keep an eye on your boy. Seeing as he’s strangely well-behaved when he’s around the other, if what our teacher’s observations are to be believed.”

The teacher blushed hotly at that pronouncement, but cleared her throat. “Well, yes, when they’re around Laurence isn’t much of a troublemaker. But try to separate them and utter hell breaks out. It’s for the best, Mr Beilschmidt—that is, if you wouldn’t object.”

The German took a few moments of silence to consider the offer, looking between the other two adults and his youngest, who was now chewing his lip—a sign he was getting impatient. Looking back at the two, he then nodded at last.

“Please, if it’s to help my son get used to being here, then I’d take anything at this point. Claude and Leanne are manageable, but not him.”

“Might I also suggest getting a foreign cable service? At least, one that has Dutch channels… to help Laurence combat being homesick. Give him some taste of home, while helping him get settled in?” she added a few moments later. “Although, I would have to suggest to bring him up to speed on his English—he’s terribly lacking in that area. We’re about to get into the next quarter of lessons, and I’m afraid if he doesn’t keep up we might have to take him aside and place him in a class that teaches English to young kids,” she continued.

“Well… I’ll see what I can do about his English comprehension. But thank you for the suggestion,” Ludwig said at last, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Excellent, then! I’ll give you the number and the schedule of Matthew’s sign language teacher so you know when to drop your little rascal off,” Francis added a few moments later.

Lars, to be honest, didn’t know what he was doing here.

But since this was Matthew’s house, he was definitely very excited to get to spend some time with him! Even if it wasn’t similar like the sleepover he had previously, he was just… well, happy to be near the other blonde.

He couldn’t understand most of the gestures, though. While he did know the one for ‘friend’ (as that was the one Matthew had taught him) that was about it. So understandably, he was nervous when he was seated down next to Matthew and Alfred when the sign-language teacher came over one cold afternoon.

“Oh! Mr Bonnefoy, you didn’t tell me we have a guest today—“

“Please, it’s Francis. And yes, he’s the one I wanted to talk to you about. If you would mind? Can we talk about this outside?” he suggested, tilting his head towards the back door—as the lessons were frequently held in the kitchen anyway.

While the two left the kitchen, Arthur turned his attention to the three blonde-haired children, noting that one of them had a rather sour look on his face. Turning to Matthew for an explanation, he signed (albeit terribly) “Is this your friend from school, Matthew?”

“Yes!” came the very enthusiastic reply from the purple-eyed child. “He helps me keep up with things in… in that scary room with Alfred.”

“You mean the classroom, lad. How much have you learned so far?”

“Oh, plenty! We were learning about shapes, and how to make them, and what colors to use! He keeps spelling orange wrong, though,” the older of his two children replied happily. “Keeps misspelling it as… _oranje_ ,” he slowed down, having to individually spell out the letters to the word he wanted to say.

“Must be because he’s Dutch. I remember having a client from where he lived a few years ago,” Arthur replied, never mind if the way he’d said ‘client’ was all wrong and Matthew crinkled his nose at his other father, trying to teach him to sign the word right.

“Aw, c’mon Dad, what’re you two talking about?” Alfred whined from the other side of the table. The usual set up of cookies and milk had been laid out for the brothers—now that they had a potential third student joining them, they had to increase the number of ‘bribes’ that would be handed out when they got a sentence right in sign.

“Shush, Alfred, I’m still talking to your older brother. Can’t you wait your turn?” Arthur said with a sigh, before shaking his head and turning back to face Matthew—the older was so engaged in signing he didn’t care if half of it came out a jumbled mess at that point.

While Arthur and Matthew were talking, Lars took this chance to look at Alfred across the table…and stick his tongue out. Nothing too mean-spirited, just for a bit of fun.

“Noisy,” the shaggy blonde said in the other child’s direction; to which Alfred overreacted. “Hey! I’m not noisy! I jus’ like talkin’, that’s all!” he said with much pomp and flair.

“What…whatever,” the other replied, rolling his eyes and looking back to where Matthew and Arthur were furiously signing. While he could pick up ‘friend’, everything was just a jumbled mess of wild gestures.

Hopefully this harebrained plan the parents had thought of would work!


	7. New Lessons

Some days were harder than others. Faces of the dead often haunted his dreams, screaming at him. As Ludwig's older brother, Gilbert had been a military brat since he could get his hands on a sign up sheet. The man had served to Africa and back. The call of patriotism and protecting your fellow man had been a siren's call that he could not resist.

That call, the magic of it was gone. The pale ex-soldier was as haunted as his complexion. Troubling memories loomed as he struggled to sleep. With a final stab to his subconscious, Gilbert jerked into waking. It took a long time to blink away sleep, tears, and the echoes of dead friends.

Ludwig was in the door frame of the only guest bedroom. His hovering presence was more a guideline than an annoyance these days. “Nightmares?” The younger brother asked simply. Gilbert nodded, not needing elaborate. Behind his brother on the floor, was a wailing screaming Laurence. The boy wasn't changing colours yet, so that was something.

Why the hell Ludwig had to train the most difficult pets, Gilbert would never understand. The ambitious sibling would probably train feral wolves if someone let him. Lars was not far off from feral wolves some days, an occasional biter.

Rubbing his temples, Gilbert decided to weigh on whatever Lars was in a fit about. “Cool Uncle Gilbert” had more or less integrated with Ludwig's large brood after moving to Canada ten months ago. The house was abuzz with energy as a new school year was about to start. 

“Hello bratwurst, what are we so noisy about today?” Gilbert greeted, crouching by the child while sleeping clothes. Ludwig rolled his eyes while mostly facing away, looking at the end of his rope.

“I don't wanna eat my vegetables!”

Oh hell, this again. Unless it was rolled in batter, the child would throw a shit fit about almost anything Ludwig made. “You know...” Gilbert started with a pretense of intrigue, looking side to side as if there was great mystery. “I heard something really cool. The coolest.”

The boy immediately stopped bawling his eyes out, sitting up. “What is it?”

“I heard little boys that eat their vegetables...” Taking a hint from the royal mess in Lar's room, and Ludwig himself, Gilbert added on. “... and clean up after themselves, get to visit friends early.”

Lars went wide eyed, like he did every time they used this low ball tactic. “I c-can see Mattie sooner?”

“That's what I heard.” Ludwig offered a casual shrug, playing into things.

Boy could that kid move when he was motivated. Lars was off on a mission, dangerously plowing through mess that wasn't even his. He probably just tackled the nearest mess at all, blinded by his reward. Coming back from the downstairs kitchen, Lars was cramming long cold vegetables in his mouth. He looked determined to destroy the things.

Gilbert stood slowly, chuckling. “Kids.” He looked over, cracking a large yawn before continuing. “I'll give the brat a ride over after a shower.” Ludwig nodded and set off to tend to all four dogs and two other children, permanently tired.

The pale man was barely out of the shower when there was tiny impatient banging on the door. “I cleaned and ate my stupid vegetables. Let's go!”

“WAIT DOWNSTAIRS.” Gilbert yelled, scrambling for a towel. He forgot to lock the damn door and he did not want to scar the eight year old forever.

“Don't take forever!” The kid hollered right back, full of sass and vinegar. Stomping trailed off directly after, Gilbert was relieved. Not sleeping well, he had forgotten all his stuff in his room. Drying and dressing with only the haste a military life could drill into you, Gilbert was ready to go in three minutes. It might as well been a century, the way Laurence paced by the door.

The blonde eight year old was a strange gremlin of a boy. He seemed purely motivated by the colour orange, only two meals, and another school mate. Lars had solidly bonded to a deaf blonde named Matthew Bonnefoy and no one could make heads or tails of it. That didn't stop the adults from exploiting the shit out of it.

Lars was mostly behaving now, and succeeding in school. It was all because he got to attend Saturday sign language lessons at Matthew's house. Gilbert was sure Lars would fistfight Jesus to get to these lessons.

Pulling into the drive way, Gilbert parked the car and shut it off. Lars was bouncing and kicking his legs with spare energy. Forgetting to take his seat belt off, the single track child was tugging on the door handle and trying to claw his way out like an animal.

Gilbert laughed and freed the tiny moron. Unable to reach the door bell, Laurence soon tugged the driver side open urgently. “Let's go!”

The Bonnefoy-Kirkland home was a decent size with pretty blue siding, if smaller than Lud's place. It was a bit tight in the two and a half bedroom house, but the family of four seemed to manage just fine. You could hardly tell the fathers couldn't afford fancy schooling, for how tastefully the place was decorated.

Arthur, a permanently salty lawyer type, opened the door before the duo got onto the charming porch. “I forgot to call, but there's no lesson today. The boy is sick.” He blocked Lars with a leg, easily the more numb of the two parents. Given the man's other son was a real screamer, this was not a surprise.

“Ah well, things happen, but I don't think that will stop him.” Gilbert offered apologetically. Lars was already climbing over the leg like a soldier in trench warfare.

“I told you, he can't play right now. He's very sick! Now stop... Argh you bloody...” Arthur was not used to being defied it seemed. He failed to capture the wild man climbing over him to get inside. Lars abandoned his bag and shoes haphazardly as he bolted up the stairs.

Gilbert walked casually after his brother's child, knowing exactly where he was going. Lars was paused before Alfred and Matthew's bedroom, hands over his mouth in shock. Gilbert didn't see what the big deal was. Matthew was just resting under covers, sniffling and hugging a stuffed bear.

Lars was acting like it was the literal end of the universe. “Is... Is he dying?” He asked in a hallowed tone. 

“No, he just has ze sniffles.” Francis explained, in the hall with the happy dog. Gilbert petted Kumanj... Kurama... _the dog_ generously, loving pets as much as Ludwig. They did own four canine companions at home.

Approaching the bedside, Lars was slow and careful. He waved nonsense at the other, their own little code. Francis, Matthew's obviously biological father, silently approved of the display. Matthew smiled after blowing his nose, hand gesturing away. The adults were going to walk away, when the oddest scene began to play out.

With fastidious care, Lars began taking care of Matthew. He tucked the sick boy in, arranging his shaggy hair so he could see. Next, only the fluffiest toys were arranged around Matthew. The recovering boy soaked in all this focus, often touching or patting Lars in tender approval. Finally, a wet eyed Lars signed quietly to his patient. He tentatively fetched his stuffed bunny from downstairs, tucking it under a sleepy Matthew's arms.

All three adults were surprised by this unnatural display. No one could touch that bunny without Lars literally biting them or getting screamed at. Finally, as if aware of observation, Lars glared at the adults in the door frame. With something just short of a dangerous growl, the boy closed the door to stop prying eyes.

Gilbert gathered his thoughts downstairs with the others. “So that was... interesting.”

“I didn't see a thing.” Francis replied, obviously aware of what just happened.

Arthur shook his head, having nothing constructive to offer, still, even he could see it. There was something... different with the boy's rather close friendship. Something everyone was not willing to label or dissect. “Boys will be boys.” he finally said, dodging the subject.

“I'd offer to remove him, but I don't think I can.” Gilbert spoke honestly.

“We don't mind having him over for a bit... do we?” Francis looked to his partner, whom shrugged and went back to his newspaper on the couch. “Then it's settled. See you in a bit?”

00000

Alfred was jealous. Jealous, jealous, jealous! It burned in his gut like coals, driving him to madness. Alfred could tolerate sharing a few cookies during sign language classes. He could deal with being ignored a lot. Now... _now_ Lars was playing doctor with Matthew and didn't even invite Alfred to play! Having been forcibly evicted from his own room by Lars, Alfred fumed in poisonous manner downstairs.

“I told you it was a bad idea.” Daddy noted dryly, absorbed in his big boring reading paper. It didn't even have connect the dots, Alfred had checked.

“Mattie and his weird friend get to play doctor, I wanna play too!”

“They aren't.. that's not... Let's go to the park lad. How about it?”

Alfred chewed his lip in thought, then nodded. “Okay. I wanna swings.”

“You want to play on the swings.” Daddy corrected, carrying Alfred as he got off the couch. “Francis I'm going to the park. Keep an eye on things.” He yelled into the kitchen. Papa had already busted out a glass of red wine, probably judging fashion people on his phone. He merely looked up from his phone, hummed, and took a sip of what Alfred assumed was adult fruit juice.

“Swings! Swings!” Alfred chattered, wiggly as he was placed on the hardwood floor.

“Are you going to behave mister?” Daddy asked sternly.

“YES.” Alfred replied with dimpled glee, “Can we go now?”

“You're not going to chase after a garbage bag or a blue jay again?”

Alfred got excited. He loved birds. Eagles were the best bird. “Birds are cool!”

Daddy sighed and began putting on Alfred's leash harness. “Leash it is.”

Walking, and sometimes dragged, Alfred eventually made it to the park. It was full of kids and noisy fun. “Dad dad dad, swings! Swings!” The excitable blonde cheered, straining on his tether to get closer.

“Use grammar, boy.” Arthur grunted, the leash not going anywhere.

“I want to play swings.”

“Good enough. Try not to hurt yourself.” With the harness slipped off, Alfred took flight. He ran giggling with strong pushes of his legs. Free! Free to play, and see other kids, and... and plow into the wooden sandbox edge by accident. Smacking into a fancy sandcastle at full speed, sand went everywhere.

Alfred groaned and rolled over, “Ow.” The maker of said castle loomed over him, frowning darkly. All the kids backed away from this GIANT. The ash blonde stranger wasn't really a giant, but he was slightly taller in a baggy hockey team shirt. The logo on it was not recognizable as English, with silly upside down letters.

“You break my castle!” the boy threatened in Russian accent thicker than mud.

“OOPS!” Alfred taunted, eager to start something with anyone anywhere. He has so much energy to burn, he couldn't stand it. Quickly on his feet, he prepared to battle. He even offered the first move, with a light push.

Battle commenced in a spray of flung sand, both highly strung boys determined to win. They were evenly matched. Alfred needed an advantage! He moved to the grassy spaces by some trees, running for it. The other kid tackled him in the process. The boys pushed and pulled at each other's shirts, battling with anything at hand. Smashed up pine cones were soon the ammunition of war.

In the epic duel over... Alfred forgot why they were fighting, but didn't care. He was having too much fun! Finally tall kid got dirt in Alfred's face while laughing in delight. It seemed they both forgot to be angry in this tussle.

Daddy finally seemed to connect with reality, bolting over. “ **ALFRED FOSTER KIRKLAND, YOU BEHAVE THIS INSTANT OR I WILL DRAG YOU HOME!** ”

Both children screeched in joy as they discovered a mud puddle, determined to drown each other in it. It took several minutes to tug the boys apart amid mud flinging and exchanged curses neither understood.

Tall Boy's mom, or Tall Mom to Alfred, finally succeeded in prying them apart. She scolded her son in spy movie bad guy language, then looked to Arthur apologetically. “I'm so sorry about this. Ivan is usually much more behaved.” Tall Mom spoke, her words curling from heavy accent.

“I'm sure this is Alfred's fault somehow, Miss. I'll be taking home now.” Daddy offered, a master at Alfred wrangling. He already had the leash harness on and clipped.

“I win!” Ivan cheered, resting on his muddy laurels.

“I WIN!” Alfred challenged as he was dragged along.

“WIN!” Ivan repeated. The daring of that boy! Alfred always won things! There would be a rematch of the mud fight dammit!

To Alfred's luck, his chance came six days later. It was the first day of school, and Daddy was helping Alfred out of the car. Alfred was so _ready_ to be a first grader. All new friends! All new subjects, and... his eyes settled on Tall Boy of the mud puddle battle. Ivan's eyes met with his in direct challenge. Alfred went a flying charge.

“I WIN!” Ivan taunted in broken English, taking on the rematch. The great duel had begun again!


	8. Brave New Worlds

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Matthew and Lars are surprised to find that they share the same class this year, meanwhile Alfred makes a new frenemy...

Matthew didn’t know why, but the feeling of terror inside him was still there—it was barely perceptible. Even if Arthur, otherwise known as Dad had insisted on bringing him to school today, it was still lingering. He didn’t know why he was so nervous. Maybe it was the nerves of another school year settling in? He couldn’t understand.

He was more than a little worried when he saw that Alfred wasn’t going to be in the same class as he was—but maybe it was a blessing in disguise? Pulling on Arthur’s pant leg nervously, he looked up with watery eyes and signed, ‘Papa, where’s Alfred going?’

The older man had been so busy minding the louder of his two children he’d very nearly missed Matthew’s attempt at getting his attention—at least that was until the older boy decided to pull a little harder on his formal dress slacks.

‘Oh, child?’ Arthur replied back in sign, sloppy around the edges. ‘You and Alfred aren’t going to be in the same class this year.’

‘Wait, what? But—why?’ the older brother replied back, frantic gesturing getting in the way of forming words.

At that same time, Alfred chose to cause a racket, which earned the younger child a very distinct eye roll. “Alfred Kirkland! Calm down, you bloody—or do I have to leash you up again?”

Matthew looked on confused, watching his father’s and brother’s mouths flapping open and closed. A hurried gesture from the bright blonde-haired brother, who continued to run around like a loose firework. Making silent noises he would never understand.

“Don’t force my hand,” was all Arthur growled. Why did he agree to bring both of them in today? Oh, that’s right—Francis had a new commercial shoot and production started today. “Boy, calm down!” he barked at the hyperactive Alfred, who was starting to run around the classroom where Matthew was to be dropped off. If he could be properly embarrassed, Arthur would’ve wished the ground to open up and swallow him because of the stupid antics that Alfred was up to.

“Oh, is he your son?” a peppy young voice intervened, cutting through Arthur’s rather murderous train of thought. Even if he was permanently salty, he still had to keep it hidden inside himself—mostly because he didn’t want to lash out too much at his hyperactive child.

“Yes, they both are. But it’s him you’ll be dealing with,” he replied promptly while gesturing at Matthew, grabbing Alfred by the collar of the shirt and bringing out the leash that he was hoping to never use.

“He sure is a quiet—“ the younger female began to say before remembering that she’d seen the boy talking with him in gestures. “Don’t worry about him, he’ll be in good hands,” she continued, taking Matthew’s bag from Arthur’s other hand. “They’re not together?”

“Mercifully. This other child of mine needs a more decisive hand to rein him in. But I’m sure you’ll enjoy being around my Matthew, given his _condition,_ ” he added a few moments later. After getting a final nod of encouragement from the peppy young lady, he then returned his attention to the anxiously-waiting child, crouching down so that they were on an eye-to-eye level with each other.

‘Matthew, you’ll be in good hands this year. Don’t be as reckless as you were last year, okay?’ Arthur signed, barely hanging onto the leash with his other hand as Alfred tried to fight it off and run away.

‘Dad, I—I wasn’t reckless! I was just—‘ Matthew replied, embarrassed and turning a nice, healthy shade of red.

‘Promise you’ll behave today, lad? If you do, I’ll take you out for something sweet to eat,’ Arthur added, before standing up and ruffling Matthew’s hair. While the older boy let out a soundless gasp and tried to shove off the older man’s hand, Alfred continued to try and break free of his little torment—that damned leash.

“Do I have to go? I don’t want to!”

These were the words that echoed through the station wagon. It was lucky that Ludwig had dropped off Claude first, before letting Leanne exit the car a few minutes prior to the boy’s outburst.

“I don’t want to go to school today! I want to stay home and sleep…” Laurence, otherwise known as Lars, whined as he swung his legs impatiently in the back seat of the car. It had been another fight and a half to drag the youngest out of bed and herd him into the bathroom; he’d even managed to get a bite down on the German’s hand in the process.

While Ludwig could only comprehend half of what the child was screaming about, he sighed before raising his hands to massage his slowly-aching forehead. “Laurence, must we go through this again?” he said, another exasperated noise barely perceptible as he did this.

“I said, _I don’t want to go to school today!_ ” the child blurted out, puffing up and crossing his arms over his chest before looking away. He was about to reach the point where he would start screaming and then change colors the longer he held in his anger, so he had to pout as long as he could. Maybe he could change the older man’s mind and just take him home.

He'd missed the slamming of the car door, and continued to look away from the mirror in the front of the vehicle. Completely ignoring the fact that Ludwig had gotten out of the car from the driver’s side, he’d also overlooked the man’s motions as he reached into his coat and began pulling out a harness from one of the inside pockets. He didn’t want to resort to this, he really didn’t.

But the little ‘bratwurst’, as uncle Gilbert liked to call him, had pushed his hand too far.

Before the young boy could comprehend much of anything else, the door on his side of the car opened and he took a tumble right into Ludwig’s waiting arms. He realized that he wasn’t inside the cool car interior anymore the moment he saw something dangling from the German’s other hand.

“No, no, _no, no!_ ” he began to scream, trying to fight his way out of Ludwig’s grip as he was corralled in and clipped to an extra-strength child leash that the long-suffering German parent had purchased on a recommendation. Now that the yowling and screeching child had been strapped in, the odd pair began the walk from the car to the school’s front doors.

While there were other parents bringing in their children, none could compare to the sight of these two. While Lars was trying his damned hardest to make an unholy racket and cause a scene, Ludwig could only sigh as he hauled the little menace in through the front door.

Even if there were other parents staring and gaping at the loud, raucous display that the child was engaged in, he paid it no heed.

After Matthew had been left in the care of the peppy lady, Arthur had gone off to the next room to haul Alfred in. His other child was still fighting to get off the leash, shouting all manner of broken words at anyone who would listen. The child was still struggling when he caught sight of the familiar tall boy from the mud puddle battle and made an almighty effort to break himself free from the leash, an attempt to settle the score.

“Settle down, boy,” Arthur barked, proceeding to tune out the powerful tugging that was coming from the younger of his sons as he tried to wrestle himself free of the restraints. This time another teacher came up to the long-suffering Englishman and looked down at the literal ball of energy that was trying to pry himself away from his parental unit.

“Your child?” the teacher inquired in a familiar-sounding accent to Arthur, keeping a steely gaze on the little spitball of energy. Unlike the other children who were unnaturally quiet, only Alfred continued to make enough noise to raise the dead.

“Yes, Miss, he’s my—“ Arthur began, before doing a double take at the pale-haired young woman. “Sorry, but are you related to—?”

She then looked up at Arthur, squinting up her eyes in the process. To the Englishman, it felt like she was sizing him up. A few moments later, she blinked before clearing her throat.

 _“No, I do not think so,”_ she replied quietly, before looking over at Alfred and addressing the Englishman in her normal tone of voice. “Is he _really_ this energetic?”

“Unfortunately. I hope you can do something about him. He’s too much to handle at this point,” Arthur continued with another sigh as he bent down and unclipped Alfred from the harness. He watched as his own progeny shot off like a rocket, free from the restraints. He then made a beeline for the tall Russian boy that they’d met a few days ago, very much intent on settling their unfinished ‘score’.

“Do not worry about me. I can handle… rowdy children,” she continued, her accent flaring slightly at the last two words. With a wave of her hand, she then made to dismiss Arthur. This was before he called the sandy blonde’s attention over, before whispering harshly in the younger boy’s ear, _“Behave yourself! If you behave today, I’ll take you and Matthew out for ice cream after I come pick you up.”_

At the prospect of potential dessert after school, the little rocket blinked owlishly at his father, before giving him the biggest grin he could muster.

“I’ll try!” was all Alfred said before Arthur dropped off the ridiculous-looking lunchbox and dinosaur-patterned bag at the table and letting himself out of the room.

No, he wasn’t going to be scared of the pretty lady. Definitely not!

Maybe it was coincidence that Arthur and Ludwig had missed each other. The moment the German parent had stopped in front of the room where he was to drop off Laurence, he was met with the sight of an incredibly peppy young lady who had long hair tied into two ponytails.

 _A parent? But she looks too young to be a teacher…_ Ludwig thought, at least until he was addressed by the young woman.

“Oh, so here’s the last one under my care, I—“ she began, before being cut off by a blur that had shot by so fast both of them almost missed it.

To Lars’ eyes, though, the incoming blur was a very excited Matthew, signing like crazy the moment he saw the other.

‘Help!’ was all he could get out before trying to wiggle his way out of the leash that was holding him down.

“Is he…?” she inquired in the German’s direction, to which he shook his head.

“They just spend a lot of time together, as children do. But no, my youngest isn’t,” he answered back, and with a perpetually tired sigh, released the other from the oppression that was the leash.

The moment he realized that his balance was about to go sideways, the other boy almost barreled into Matthew, thankfully the other was able to right his balance and began gesturing frantically at him—only because he was excited to have the other in his class again for another year.

“He… he might come off as a little strange. But please, don’t let that deter you against him. I’ve tried so many things—not even my brother can keep his curiosity in check. _If you can get him under control, I will **eternally** thank you,_” he mutters, soft enough for her to hear. The tired expression on his face never seemed to go away no matter how hard he tried to keep things afloat.

“He’ll be in good hands—you’re just like that other father who came by earlier before you did, don’t you know? Accompanied by a louder kid who can raise the dead if he tried hard enough,” she remarked with a bit of a grin, and Ludwig could only sigh.

“Laurence isn’t like that. Trust me, he’s an _entirely_ different challenge when you come to face him,” he continued, handing over the pastel-orange lunch box and a proper-looking backpack that didn’t look too out of place, if not for the singular bunny face on its front flap.

“And please, if he insists on being called Lars, just… just humor him, _I hope it’s just a phase,_ ” he adds while looking over to where his adopted progeny was now communicating madly in a language even he couldn’t begin to comprehend.

Why was time so slow?

When children are sufficiently entertained—or even just distracted long enough, time would seem like it’s nothing at all. Lessons flew by, and it was time for lunch. While most of the children would be eating inside the classroom, the peppy lady named Michelle let some of the other children go outside to eat under the trees, as long as she accompanied and kept an eye on them of course.

Among those kids were Matthew and Lars.

The other didn’t know why Matthew was so excited, practically wiggling as he took the other to one of the shadier spots under one of the sprawling trees. Never mind if they were going to get grass stains all over their shorts later, this was going to be worth it! At least, those were the thoughts going through Matthew’s simplistic mind as they sat facing each other, lunch boxes in hand.

‘Oh, ew. Not this **_again_** ,’ Lars signed with a soundless sigh, opening his lunch box and flipping it around so Matthew could see the contents.

‘What is it with your dad? Why does he love making potatoes? Is there something with them?’ the other signed back, wondering where there was such a look of undisguised disgust on Lars’ face as he cringed and pulled out a soggy potato pancake.

‘It’s his thing. And honestly… we siblings hate it. He does this every single time. Even if we beg and whine and complain… it’s always potatoes!’

‘I don’t know what’s so bad about them? Alfred likes them!’ Matthew replied back, wondering what his brother was getting himself into. But that was neither here nor there. This was their moment. ‘Uhm. I… I made you something.’

Truth be told it was Francis who had helped Matthew ‘make’ the treat, all things considered. But he wasn’t going to tell that to Lars now, was he.

‘What is it?’ Lars continued, hoping that whatever it was Matthew brought along would be the respite he needed from potato-flavored _anything_ at this point.

‘You have to close your eyes first. And hold out your hands.’

‘Huh? What do you mean?’ the other asked, a confused look crossing his face.

‘Please? For me?’ Matthew pleaded, hoping the other understood the reason _why_ he had to close his eyes.

‘A—Alright. I trust you,’ was all he replied, closing his eyes. He knew that he could squint out of one of them, but decided not to, for Matthew’s sake.

Over on the other end the excited vibrating let him reach into his fancier lunch box and pull out a small container, tied with a pastel-orange bow. While the container wasn’t see-through, there was something very significant inside of it—and the primary reason why he’d called the other to join him here today. The moment the other felt the press of an unfamiliar pressure in his outstretched and waiting hands, Lars opened his eyes.

‘What’s this?’ he asks, one-handed as he clumsily tries to untie the ribbon. Instead, he only gets a wiggling Matthew in answer. Wondering what the other wanted to really express (but couldn’t) he managed to slip off the ribbon and pulled the top open.

The moment the familiar scent hit his nostrils, he looked at the other. Blinking first at the contents in disbelief, before looking back at the other. He continued the process in silent shock a few more times before finally managing to gather himself to actually ‘say’ something.

‘You… how did you know what—?’ he stammers, hand shaking.

‘I asked… what’s his name… C l o—no, C l o u d—no, wait… Cla—your brother! To be fair, it was Papa who asked your father, who in turn asked your older brother, who then—‘ Matthew tried to explain before he was suddenly engulfed in a tight hug by Lars.

Thankfully the container hadn’t been thrown aside, its precious cargo of _bitterballen_ still intact within.

Time was a funny thing, indeed.

Now that the day was over and most of the children had been picked up by their parents (Alfred had to be held down by an angry looking Natalya, the teacher who oversaw his class as Ivan was picked up by his mother because the two were in the middle of an argument as Ivan’s mother came by) the kids who remained behind were grouped together in one of the rooms closest to the front doors.

“Aw, come on! He’s leaving already?!” Alfred grumbled, crossing his arms as the taller Russian kid was picked up by the equally-tall lady who spoke ‘spy movie bad guy language’ to the scary female who looked like she could sic a knife on naughty children if given the chance.

“If you don’t settle down, Alfret, I’ll be talking to your father,” the pretty but scary teacher, who insisted to be called Miss Natalya, growled at him in a similar fashion after seeing the two off for the day.

“But you sound like them! You’re a bad guy! No, no, a bad lady!” Alfred blurted out, mouth always going too fast for his own good.

The remaining kids who were in Alfred’s class knew better than to argue with their teacher, and pretended not to get involved as the loud-mouthed blonde child continued to talk his head off, shouting at anyone who would listen. Over where Matthew and Lars were waiting, the other could only eye roll before smacking a palm to his forehead and dragging it down before pointing at the loudmouth.

‘Your brother’s being… stupid again,’ Lars signed with a soundless sigh, before hiding his face in his arms, too embarrassed to admit that yes, he knew Alfred and he could perfectly hear and understand what the hell the other kid was yammering about.

‘He’s always like that… making the weirdest things with his mouth,’ Matthew replied, just shaking his head and looking away, wanting the day to be done already. He wanted to go home! Where was Dad?

The answer, surprisingly, announced himself approximately ten minutes later. To the three children, though, it felt like an eternity. After Francis had dropped by and corralled Alfred from a very controlled-looking Miss Natalya, he practically sashayed his way over to where Matthew and Lars waited.

“Papa, papa! Dad said he’d take us out for ice cream if we behaved!” Alfred constantly reminded Francis, adamant on getting his treat. What he didn’t realize was that Natalya had talked with Francis prior to the parent picking up one of his two children, and so there would be no ice cream.

_At least for Alfred._

‘Papa! Papa! Thank goodness you’re here!’ Matthew signed, quickly standing up at the sight and running over to Francis, practically colliding with the other’s pant leg due to sheer excitement. ‘Where’s Dad?’ he asked a few moments later, looking around. Were they not always together, even at home?

‘He’s busy right now. I agreed to get you both in his place. You can tell your friend as well that his father sent me to get him as well, he’s busy too,’ Francis explained, and after some rather complicated relay messaging, the three children were piled in the back of the family car, headed through the neighborhood.

Francis, of course, had better ideas than Arthur when it came to taking children out for snack time.

The youngest of the Beilschmidt brood wouldn’t be picked up from the Bonnefoy-Kirkland home until sometime later before dinner by a harried-looking ‘cool uncle Gilbert’, as the younger brother had called in an emergency favor to the older.

And how Gilbert hated it when he was interrupted when it came to him fixing his cars! He had a restoration job to finish and he was short on time, dang it! Nothing would prepare the albino for the sight of seeing three children running around the house, two of them screaming about something called “Oompa Loompas” to high heaven, while the third would quietly sit in a corner, making little noises of mirth and trying to mimic the other two.

“Let me guess… they discovered Willy Wonka,” was all he could tell Francis. The other parent could only grin savagely as he went to grab the one who was now singing about orange Oompa Loompas in an off-key manner, checking to make sure that he’d grabbed the right child, and handed off Lars to Gilbert’s care. 

Francis looked completely and _totally_ unrepentant at what the other parent had said, this unreadable smirk on his face before waving the two out of the house.


	9. A Star Is Born

Ivan would be lying if he said he was popular. Back in Volgograd, he had been a frequent bully magnet. It was a niche he planned to avoid filling this time around. He didn't understand why he was once targeted. What was so wrong with purple!? It was nice colour!

So it was that Ivan kept to himself in Canada, barely talking. He gave death glares and lowly grunts when lacking English. English was so hard to learn! Of course, Ivan was a good boy. He didn't question why they moved, even if he didn't understand. The more distance he could get from Father, the better. Maybe an ocean would be enough space?

It was the start of Canadian grade one, and the eight year old boy was nervous. What groups would he have align with to not be attacked? Who was the lead socialite in this new jungle? Ivan poked his breakfast cereal as it became soggy in the bowl, fretting all the while.

“Eat up Ivan, you have a big day ahead of you.” Mama scolded in Russian, gathering her purse and keys. She was already dressed in her nurse scrubs, long hair in a neat little bun.

“Why can't I go to work with you and see the babies? I like the babies.” Ivan whined, pushing his now mushy cereal away.

“I can't take you to the hospital Vanya. They have to keep neo-natal clean.” Mama harried to and fro, packing lunches and drying dishes simultaneously. This wasn't difficult, since the tiny rental home was so organized.

“I'll be good! I'll... carry stuff.”

The normally ardent mother laid flat blue eyes upon her child. Oh no, the serious face! Ivan shrank in his chair a little as she spoke. “You have to be a good boy and try to make friends. You have a tree house of your very own! Maybe some of the children want to come play in it?”

There was many ways to respond to this. Ivan could point out that no one seemed to like him here. He could count the number of times he had been hit or cursed at by people his own age. Ivan could even explain that he was different somehow, and his survival meant separation from the general public. Ivan did none of these things. He was a _good_ boy.

“Yes, Mama.” he muttered obediently, stare burning holes in the floor.

The soggy cereal now sunk and sitting on the bottom of the solid bowl, Mama grabbed it mindlessly. Seeing only the sugary polluted milk, she dumped it and washed mindlessly between other chores. “Good you ate your food. We have to get moving.”

Understanding his cue, Ivan sat himself on a couch by the door not far away. He began to wait the traditional few minutes for luck, joined by his Mama. During the daily ritual, Mama would cuddle him or preen his shaggy locks carefully. He adored the attention.

Finally, they were on the way to school. Supposedly, Ivan was getting escorted by Mama today. He was going to use his short lived immunity to the maximum. After today he would be taking the bus, like other big boys. Buses were like social shark tanks. It was a task to stay alive in them.

Being so far from the school, they had time to chat. Peeking out at passing scenery, Ivan spoke of random thoughts. “Mama, can I have babies?”

“No dear, only girls get pregnant.” Mama was so damn smart.

“Can I steal a baby for my own?”

“That would put you in prison my little Vanushka.” She knew so much!

Prison was the bad place bad people went, forever and ever. They didn't get to bring toys or hot chocolate with them either. This in mind, Ivan hummed in thought. “Can I _buy_ a baby?”

Mama paled a little as she drove. “Why are you so preoccupied with this?”

Flights of ridiculous fancy took hold in Ivan's mostly undamaged mind. “I want a big family when I'm all grown up and tall. I'm going to be a friendly Papa that loves all the babies, and I'll be strong, and punch meanies that hurt them... and braid pink ribbons in their hair. Just like Mr. Bear.”

At this, Mama cut him off. Her voice was no longer calm. Whenever Ivan's old stuffed bear was brought up, she always seemed to be like this. “There is it, the school. See it?”

Ivan sat up and peered out the window. It was barely visible at all, despite being a straight shot ahead. They had at least four blocks and two sets of lights to go. “I guess.” he sunk back in his chair, picking at his nails. “Does Mr. Bear make you mad?”

Mama huffed, looking concerned despite her warmed up tone. “No, just... try talking about... sports, or weather first, okay?”

“Okay.” Ivan mumbled, not understanding anything.

Almost late for work, Mama was more rushed than usual. Combined with being slightly early, Ivan ended getting handed off like a hot potato. There he was, chucked into a class room with few others. This was so alone, and desolate, and horrible!

His quiet stewing over being dumped off ended. He heard a clearly Slavic voice in the hall, and his heart pattered. He raced into the hall blindly, sure it was Mama. The voice even sounded Russian and familiar. Maybe not from Volgograd, but definitely a city Ivan had visited back home!

It was not Mama. It was a fit woman, dripping Russian charms and beauty. How blessed was Ivan to meet a TV superstar? She had to be, looking so pretty. He approached her carefully, looking up in awe. “Hello.” He greeted in Russian meekly.

Stone cold blue eyes, like carved winter. Even her _eyes_ were pretty. “What is it?” The lady replied simply, looking so authoritative with her clip board.

“Are you a TV star from Russia?” Ivan asked, in awe.

“No. Why would you assume such things.”

Ivan bounced a little on the spot, happy to have a conversation in a normal language. “Because you're so pretty.”

That remark earned Ivan a small crinkle of a smile. It was the Russian equivalent of a grin. The woman settled, resuming her flat expression. “So sweet of you. You can take a seat, since you're so early.”

“You're my teacher?” This was confirmed with a nod, then the adult walked off to talk to someone else.

Giddy, Ivan took a seat in the middle of all the desks. It had the distinguishing feature of being the most forgettable location. This would really maximize his social protection. Most bullies were only interested in the fringe groups or the strange types. Kicking his legs under the desk, Ivan could barely contain himself. Mama was never going to believe Ivan had a supermodel for a teacher.

After about five minutes of doodling on a piece of paper, Ivan was faced with his new playmate. Alfred Kirkland was certain to be a bully at first. It was during that fateful mud fight that several inconsistencies were noted. True bullies didn't wait eagerly for you to strike back. They just kept hitting over and over until you were a weakened pile. A true bully also didn't stop upon sighting a bruise forming. Alfred had paused his playful assault, looking shocked at Ivan's hurt posture. 

Was the fiery blonde boy unaware he played rough? Ivan intended to find out this weekend. Mama was letting Ivan invite the volatile thing over for a play session. She was under the grand illusion Alfred was Ivan's friend. Was she actually right this time?

Into the classroom Alfred raced, clearly dodging the grips of his authoritarian parent. “Hi tall kid!” He greeted, all Hollywood smiles in the making. Maybe loosing a baby tooth or two had left an awkward gap in the whiteness. It was still nice to see.

“I'm... Ivan.” He corrected slowly, sounding out each section carefully.

Alfred cocked his head like a confused dog. “Avan?”

“Nyet... Ivan.”

“Eye Vahn.”

Ivan was getting no where with this. Before he could correct the mess, Alfred slapped both hands on the desk. “Nice to meet you proper, _Eye-van_. You wanna play tag?”

The taller Russian faltered in his chair, unsure how to continue. Bullies did not invite you nicely to things. “I.. uh... school starting soon?”

Alfred shoved in him his chair playfully. “Come on Ivy, play! Chase! Let's go!”

In this barrage of words, Ivan was like a deer caught in headlights. What was he supposed to do now? The lovely movie star teacher came to his rescue, her voice like poison. “ALFRET STOP HARASSING OTHER STUDENTS.” Her lovely Russian accent bled through like water colours, making every word art. While Ivan went starry eyed, Alfred acted like a hawk was attacking him.

“Why are you so scary!” Alfred wheezed, running off like a frightened bunny. It was a sight to behold.

School was okay, and sometimes fun. Alfred was some type of lucky charm, attracting all the kids Ivan repelled. For every person turned away by the Russian accent, two more flocked to Alfred's crackling jokes and freckled charisma. For ever how long Alfred was willing to tolerate Ivan, the uncertain newcomer was safe.

Lunch time arrived, and the corrals of children stuck in rooms couldn't be happier. It was a flood of warm bodies and enthusiasm into the grassy yard. There was a jungle gym here, looking freshly painted and rust free. That was surprising and wonderful. Young Ivan didn't even know you could get non-wooden play equipment without rust.

The rest of the yard was a few rubber balls scattered on open lawn. The few rare trees were prized. You had to get out pretty fast to reserve one. Today the four trees were used by a large gaggle of girls and another group of students. One tree had several children reading books of a large red dog. The last leafy refuge of shade was reserved by... oh my.

In the farthest corner, sat Deaf Kid. Deaf kid was a blonde thing, with freckles and vulnerability stamped on his face. Ivan didn't know anything about Deaf Kid, other than he was a bully magnet. Ivan didn't know how, or when, but the teasing was going to hit like a truck. Ivan's own social protection was almost guaranteed with Deaf Kid around, taking up the bottom of the food chain.

Deaf Kid sat with an orange wrapped container, bouncing with excitement. There was obviously something going on. Curious and bored, Ivan climbed to the very top of the jungle gym. Unafraid of heights, or much else for that matter, he watched the scene play out while sitting precariously.

Deaf Kid was soon joined by Angry kid, who had hoarded _all_ the remaining orange juice boxes. Jerk. Angry kid was something to reckon with, apparently. He stuck to Deaf Kid's side like a loyal companion, a beloved pet. It was happening right now!

Ivan grimaced at the slurry of dark feeling in his gut, but watched anyway. What were they doing? Why did they take a whole tree for this? After a few minutes, the purpose was clear. They were... sharing tiny meatball things? Doughnuts? It was hard to tell from this distance. Angry kid could be seen getting rather emotional, having big breaths. He began to cry, which was shocking to the young Russian. Deaf Kid began comforting Angry Kid, drying his tears with a sleeve.

Well that was... Well. Ivan didn't know what to think. It was some unmistakable quality that couldn't yet be named, and it drove the taller boy crazy to see it. It made a lonely Ivan sick in his tummy with... lots of feelings. They were sticky uncomfortable feelings Mama told him not to talk about in public.

Ivan brooded a moment, unable to watch the display anymore. Those two kids were going to get their asses kicked now. They damn near advertised “Bully me, I am vulnerable.” in the sky with cloud letters. What Ivan had not planned, was how little time he could stew by himself. Alfred bounded over, followed by a small but growing group of admirers.

“PLAY! LET'S GO!” the shorter force of nature shrieked, always brimming with energy.

Ivan blinked owlishly from his high perch, then nodded. “Okay.” It seemed, the new comer had more of today to be graced by Alfred's natural luck and sociability. In this way, Ivan's first public school week in Canada passed with ease. He even found himself befriending Angry Kid. That guy was actually named Laure... Laren... _Lars_. Lars was fine enough on his own.

The problem was, Lars was never far from Deaf Kid. Deaf Kid was actually Matthew, Alfred's older brother. Neither of them were bad by themselves, but together... It make Ivan prickle inside. Feelings were so hard! Ivan just wanted to steal what they had. Lock it far away in a tiny box he could hold to his broken little heart. It was yet another thing he wasn't supposed to talk about. Why was there so many thoughts Ivan had to keep to himself?

These trifling problems were cast aside. Ivan was too excited about his weekend. Alfred had been graciously accepting of Ivan's tree house play offer. Now it was time to test the waters of friendship, and see if this wasn't all in his head.

It was Saturday, during a lovely summer afternoon. The birds chirped, the breeze tickled fluffy green tree tops, and Ivan couldn't stay still. The previous renter of this small house had been very campy, and Ivan loved every bit of it. From the cowboy wallpaper in the kitchen, to the pink tile bathroom, it was all perfection. Ivan's bedroom was the best place in the world.

Today it was a royal mess of toys. Mama was as thrifty as she was generous. Most of Ivan's things were from garage sales. Even the snacks she made for visitors were leftovers baked into a peach cobbler. Her baking was the best!

Ivan peeked over the counter on his tip toes, reaching for fresh made dessert. His hand was swatted away absently by Mama. She seemed permanently locked into at least two chores at a time. It was a wonder she had time to bathe. “No! It has to cool, my precious Vanushka.”

“Aww. It smells good.” Ivan whined, giving Mama the biggest cutest eyes he could summon.

“No. Your little playmate is coming over in... any minute now. Go wait by the door, or play in your room.” Damn, the begging face didn't work again. It used to work a lot more.

Huffing in defeat, Ivan did as he was told. He lay on the green shag carpet by the door, poking the worn fibres. After a few minutes of this, he started stacking Mama's knitting magazines on his body like he was a mummy. The festive door bell rang in the middle of this tomfoolery.

Ivan burst out of his magazine mummy layer like a terrier, racing to the kitchen. “Mama! Mama! Mama! People, here to play! Mama!”

Mama chuckled, setting everything down on the counter. “I know. I know, I'm coming.”

Ivan shot back to the door, as the bell played again. “Mama!” he squeaked, too excited to make big words. Finally the door opened. It was Alfred, fun bright Alfred! There was... Matthew too, but Ivan's didn't much care about him.

“You're it!” Alfred started up again, so determined to win everything. He tagged Ivan hard in the shoulder, running inside with his shoes on.

“ALFRED GET YOUR SHOES OFF RIGHT NOW.” A very English father roared, kicking off his own shoes upon entry. “Apologies madam. He's mostly piss and vinegar.” The scruffy suited man offered, running after his offspring.

“No... problem?” Mama replied, just as confused by the saying as Ivan. The two Russians looked to each other in equal confusion, then shrugged. Sure enough, Alfred was dragged back by the scruff of his shirt. 

“NO!”

“Take off your shoes, then tell this lady how nice she is for letting you visit.” the tired father hissed in threatening authority.

Alfred rolled his eyes, but obeyed. Tugging off his Velcro sneakers he looked up to very tall Mama. “Thank you miss Bazingsky for letting me come play.” he mumbled, butchering Ivan's last name.

“Braginskaya, but you are welcome little one. You can play now Vanya.” Mama commanded, releasing Ivan of his polite oath.

Grinning like a devil, Ivan slapped Alfred back on the arm. “You it!” He then raced away from the boring adults towards his room.

Pounding footsteps behind him meant Alfred took the bait. “I'm gonna win!” Alfred cheered, confirming the situation. Racing into Ivan's room, Alfred skidded to a halt and quieted.

Ivan twirled around to taunt his new maybe-friend. This game of theirs was almost too much fun! The words died in his throat at the expression of his guest. Alfred looked shocked, struggling to process the place. “Is this your room?” he finally asked slowly, picking his words slowly.

“Yeah! It best place in world!” Ivan replied honestly in his clunky English.

“You, um, weren't planning to show the other kids this right?”

“We were going to play dress up.” Ivan explained, not understanding what the problem was.

Alfred cleared his throat, uncomfortable. “I well. I... You can't okay? The other kids will kill you.”

Ivan cocked his head, failing to grasp the problem. Alfred gingerly grabbed him by the shoulders, turning him to face the room. “You see it yet? It's the walls, the... the everything.”

The Russian boy couldn't see 'it'. All he saw was the same rainbow pony wallpaper. There was the usual heaps of colourful stuffed animals. The white dresser was covered in Disney princess stickers, like normal. Ivan's box of costume supplies was overflowing with sparkly accessories and purple. “This normal.”

“This _not_ normal.” Alfred repeated sternly, though he carried the authority of a puppy.

The message took a long minute to sink in. Ivan widened his eyes in fearful horror. What Mama had been hinted at all year was finally clear. A dark snarl of thought surfaced, insecurities exposed like raw nerves. “Am... am I bad?”

Alfred was genuinely flummoxed a moment, the tip of his tongue stuck out in thought. Finally, he brightened to a smile. “No. The other kids would be jealous.”

“Jell us?” Ivan mumbled, his grasp on English not so tight.

“Jealous is... um. They want, um. Feelings are hard.”

Forever lost, Ivan tried again. “I lie to others?”

“No, you can... stretch truth! Daddy does it all the time at work. He's a smarty smart.”

“Stretch Truth?” How did one give a metaphorical concept exercise, let alone stretch it? Canada was a strange place.

“Yeah! See...” Alfred was so easy to excite, climbing onto Ivan's kitten print covered bed. “You put the dolly... on this unicorn. Now she's a cowboy! Cowboys are the coolest.” He demonstrated his point further, grabbing a sparkly purple dragon with fluffy blue wings. “See, this is deep blue.”

Ivan furrowed his brows. “It purple.”

“Purple is deep in blue. So it's deep blue.” Alfred corrected jovially.

The logic was impeccable, startlingly clear to a young Ivan. He hopped on the bed and grabbed the tortured Mr. Bear. It was a teddy bear in a pink dress, with a broken plastic crown. Father had tried to cut up the bear in rage before Mama moved very far away. The stuffed toy's face had a long stitch scar to show for it's past, one arm missing some stuffing.

“This... light red.” Ivan prompted, pointing to the pink princess dress. He earned a cheer of approval. “This is... tigers.” he went on, pressing on his blankets. “This, nature pictures.” He went on, getting braver and bolder.

“You get it!” Alfred crowed, Raising his arms in loud joy.

“But not show it to others?” Ivan asked, concerned once more. The English word 'Jealous' was one he didn't know yet.

“Other kids, they... would steal it all, break it. Because... they can't have it. Yes.” Even Alfred seemed unsure of himself as he spoke. Ivan squinted at him a long moment, then let it go. Ivan loved his dollies and his princess... no, _prince_ dress up supplies. He had to protect them! Only he could look fabulous in them, and Ivan hated sharing anything.

Sure enough, there was an intrusion to their small conversation. “Vanya! The rest of your friends are here.” Both boys returned to the living room, startled at the sudden population boost. Alfred's daddy was gone, but there was four other kids and Lars. Matthew and Lars were glued together yet again, which was unsettling. Not that Ivan didn't want that for people. He did, He just... wanted to steal it at the same time. Forever.

“Well look at this, you have a little party!” Mama praised, as she finished mincing words with all the other parents blocking up the front door.

“I didn't even know you guys were coming!” Alfred greeted, clearly familiar with them.

“I came because Mr. B dragged me here.” Lars whined.

“We wanted to hang out too!” Another kid piped in.

“Ooh do you have a tree house here? Daddy won't let me have one!” A third kid noted, looking out the window on tip toes.

The storm of English flew over Ivan's head. This was fine. Fact of the matter was, this was the first party Ivan ever had. Only popular kids had parties. For the first time, Ivan was euphorically popular thanks to Alfred. He _loved_ it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ivan is a great big fairy and you can't stop me.


	10. Pinky Promises

Matthew hated this place, these people, this living room, these pants. He hated the yard he could vaguely see out the back window, with that rather lovely tree house in the back. The weather was perfect, unfortunately. Nothing was really wrong, but Matthew was in a cantankerous mood. Alfred was invited to Ivan's house to play, and he had to go flap his hands about it. Now every damn kid in school knew about it. Then came the questions from Papa and Daddy, needling and intrusive.

_Don't you want to hang out with your brother?_

Matthew loved his brother, but they were from different social planets. Matthew was completely deaf and a devoted bookworm. There was literally no benefit to being in Ivan's campy little rental house. Yet, here he was, stewing on on the green shag carpet of a stranger's home. Dad damn near dragged the angrily sulky creature inside. There was nothing that could make this party better. Nothing!

Meanwhile, Lars didn’t know how he’d managed to end up here. Maybe he’d gotten lucky? Or maybe it was just some fluke of nature that the equally tall, pale-haired boy had invited him. The one named Ivan, with thick Russian.

Of course, Lars was initially leery at first, and said that he wasn’t going to come unless Matthew was there. Of course, Alfred had overheard him grumbling about this, and the little force of nature had gone on to bother—no, borderline  _pester_ , both Francis and Arthur if he could bring his older brother along. Needless to say, the moment Lars found out Matthew was going, he was all over the thing.

He secretly really didn’t want to go because Alfred was going to be there. He had to get there somehow because leaving Matthew alone with other children their age who didn’t know he was deaf. It was pretty much trouble in all the wrong places. Lars had to actually ask nicely at home if he could go somewhere this weekend. The magic words here were “Matthew’s going, I can’t leave him alone,” and sure enough, cool uncle Gilbert had agreed to drive him out to where Ivan lived.

The problem here was:  _they didn’t know where the Russian boy lived._  They were going to be **_super_** late.

Back at the party, Matthew sulked by a snack table set out in the backyard. The food looked disgusting, but it was actually tiny delicious cabbage rolls. Alongside this was apple dumpling things. The mother's expressive curly writing was nonsense to Matthew's eyes. He would just nod and pretend to know what the tall mom was getting at. It was nice of her to try and talk to him, but nice wasn't good enough. The miserable blonde wanted to be home with his books and Lars's stuffed bunny, or Lars himself. That was even better, in all ways.

Fact of the matter was, this party was garbage. Nothing would ever be better again! Matthew was here, practically alone, and... wait a sec. Ivan's mom was reacting to something, possibly one of these sounds Matthew was told of. The little boy perked up and followed her, hopeful it was his parents coming back for him. Dad, all apologetic with his angular signing. 'I'm so sorry Matthew, you were right. We should always listen to you!' He would go on, praising Matthew. Alfred was getting a lot of the attention lately.

Of course he would! The spotlight magnet was doing amazing in all his assignments!

The front door was opening, but it wasn't Dad or Papa rescuing him. It was something much better. It was the sun rising, the joy of color, the flutter of sugary joy in Mattie's brain. It was  _Lars_. Lars was here and everything was wonderful again.

“Go on, bratwurst, I’ll pick you up… oh, I dunno, the same time the rest of the other kids do,” Gilbert said with a dismissive wave, not staying too long. He had to get back as soon as he could to the garage. One of his latest restoration projects awaited him.

“But uncle Gil, how would you know what time that is?” Lars whined, still not getting out of the car.

“Trust me, I know these things. All adults do.” he added with a very cocky grin. It wasn’t until Gilbert opened the door for Lars did he realize that he had to go. Outward, he exited the cool vehicle. Taking in the scenery, Gilbert joined him a few moments later. The boy didn't feel the urge to walk, until the older man urged him forward with a gentle nudge.

“Uncle Gil,  _no need to shove,_ ” he grumbled, huffing as he puffed out his cheeks.

“Ah, bratwurst, you’re standing there too long. Let’s go!” the albino continued, leading the way up to the house. They hoped it was right house, because there was a tree house not too far away from it. The whole neighborhood was older, lined with greenery.

By the looks of things, Lars was not the only late one. One other car was already leaving, parent without child. Pushed along, Lars looked about as they approached the door. Uncle Gil was a child at heart, ringing the door bell several times. The door opened immediately. It didn't matter that Ivan's super Russian sounding mom was there to greet them. Lars didn't even care about this party. What was important was the boy standing distantly behind her, looking rather cross.

_Mattie._

Lars was concern and a flurry of hand signals, squeezing past all the adults. The sight of it was... Matthew wasn't good with feelings. He was eight years old, he was still struggling with polygons and math. Even so, there was whole lot of warm something in his heart. It was nice, like Saturday morning blanket snuggles.

'Are you okay? You looked mad.' Lars greeted, giving all the other kids lots of distance. Ivan and Alfred emerged from somewhere, a toothy Hollywood smile on Alfred's freckled face. There was much commotion as the herd moved outside. There was words being spoken between everyone, but they were lost to Matthew. The deaf blonde stubbornly stayed put inside.

'I'm not angry now. You're here!' Matthew replied gleefully, gripping the straps of his bunny backpack after.

'This party is dumb, but I decided to come anyway.' Lars boasted, clearly covering up some other motive. Matthew took it at face value, glad for the company. Ivan's mother was saying something long. It was seen in how much she opened and closed her mouth. Gosh, Matthew needed to learn lip reading one of these days. Once more, Lars communicated properly. 'We have to go outside and play with the others.'

Matthew slanted his head back and breathed in sulky exasperation. 'Fine. Let's go already.' He practically stomped outside, wishing he was anyplace else with Lars. Maybe they could run away and start an adventure. Ivan, Alfred, and Alfred's latest fans were all being hooligans and running around the yard in pure chaos. It was unclear if they were all insane or following the rules of an obscure game. Either way, a reprieve was needed.

Spotting the partially rickety rope and board ladder of the tree house, Matthew ran over. He had no fear of anything, braver than most. He gave the ropes only one sharp tug in testing. He then scuttled up the thing like a seasoned sailor. Matthew looked down, handing on by one hand lazily while signing with another. Accomplished at ambidexterity, this was not a challenge for him. 'You coming Mr. Bunny Knight?'

Lars was not so keen on Matthew dangling off an old rope and board ladder. He looked pale for some reason. 'Yeah. I'll meet you up there.'

Once they were up in the rickety, dingy, dirty old tree house, Lars had to tell himself not to look outside the holes which served as the window and door. They were pretty high up, and he was more than a bit scared.

Wait, scared? He was absolutely _terrified_!

He didn’t know he was panicking until he felt a feather-light touch on his shoulder, and his head snapped around so quickly he’d almost bumped right into Matthew’s forehead.

‘Are you okay?’ the wheaten-blonde asked him, eyes full of concern.

‘Uh. I… I don’t know. Maybe. Maybe not. I’m just… why are we so high up,’ he replies, his hands shaking before he outright breaks the strong front he was putting up and literally throws himself into the other boy’s hold. He didn’t know why, but being higher up than a few feet off the ground made him feel really nervous and fidgety.

Matthew didn't understand his best friends terror, but he could try. He squeezed back just as fiercely. He could feel the typically braver boy's heart pounding away, a frightened tempo. He sat in this small space, holding Lars close. Unable to communicate with his hands busy, Matthew settled for nuzzling Lars. In a few minutes, the scared boy settled, mostly pliant in Matthew's grip. 'I brought back your bunny. I made it better.' he finally signed again.  
  
Lars looked up from Matthew's lap with grave concern. 'Made it better?'

Prying his last arm free, Matthew shrugged off his bunny backpack. The holy figure, Lars's stuffed bunny from his dead mother, was revealed. It had a small patch on the back, close enough in color you could barely tell. A new blue ribbon graced it's neck, a white stripe in the center. 'The dog bit it, but Dad helped me fix it. I felt bad. I gave it a ribbon. I hope I did okay.'

'You saved her, you saved...' Lars had to pause his sign language to wipe a snotty face on his sleeve. He then hugged the bunny tight. 'Thank you. Thank you so much, I...' It was too much to see and not act. Matthew's heart felt like it was going to melt, spilling over the sides, uncontrolled. He was a disaster and he embraced it. Amidst squishy hugs, a hesitant sweet forehead kiss graced Lars's face. It was gesture that ached with emotion, one Matthew had never seen other children display. Blushing, he awaited judgement.

There was none in Lars's green eyes. A new question bubbled up in this vulnerable time. 'Lars, where do you think you'll be in the future?' Matthew asked.

That question made the other stare back at Matthew. He couldn't understand why it was asked, because to be honest he had  _no idea at all_ on what he wanted to do when he got older.

'Honestly? I... I don't know,' he begins, one hand still hanging on tight to the stuffed bunny. He thought he wasn't going to see it, _her_ , again. Here his bunny was, rightfully home with him. Looking at it to give himself some time to think, he gets lost in thought.

'What about you? What do you want to do when you grow up?' He asks. Lars figured, he could delay answering the question with another question of his own! He knew that Claude and Léanne did it quite often especially when they were being questioned by either Uncle Gilbert or Mr. B.

'Papa says I can be anything I want. I don't believe that.' Matthew paused, looking out the window wistfully. The very same Lars was terrified to look out of. 'I want us to still be friends in the future.' He meant it, with every part of his mind.

'We'll always be friends! You're awesome, uncle Gil said so.' Lars assured with a smile. It was an expression that could melt Matthew into a puddle.

'Thanks.' Matthew signed shyly. 'Why couldn't you visit yesterday?'

Lars rolled his eyes. 'Mr. B is making me take music lessons. He thinks it will give my free time more structure.'

The concept of music was one Matthew had been told about before, but never understood. He cocked his head, confused. 'Music lessons?'

'Yeah you know, with sounds all strung together and... _**Oh**_.' Lars's explanation was cut short by his own realized naivety. Matthew had never heard sound in his whole life. He didn't know the crows and caws and crackles of nature. The gilded highs of a human laugh, and the sad depths of a noisy sob would never reach his ears. Humbled, Lars deflated a little. 'It's not important. Just some dumb stuff from a book.'

'I love books. Could I come?' Matthew asked, perking up in misunderstanding.

'I... I don't know. I'll have to ask Mr. B.'

'I'm sure I'll be able to come. Then neither of us will be lonely.' Matthew didn't seem to understand the solemn nature of his signed phrases some days.

‘Now that you mention it… I wanted to ask you something.’

Lars held on tightly to the stuffed rabbit in his left arm, wondering just how to phrase this properly. He had no idea if Matthew was familiar with the idea of ‘pinky promises’, but he was certainly going to try. The last time he’d done this was with his mother, however the promise had been broken a long time ago ever since she died. 

Ever since then, he was too afraid to bring up the topic of making such promises because they were sacred. He held them sacred and in high regard.

Clearing his throat slightly, he turned away for a few moments in order to compose his thoughts. Why was he having difficulty trying to get the ‘words’ right? Maybe because the person he wanted to communicate it with couldn’t hear him? Who knew.

After a few more moments of internal panicking, Lars turns around and holds up his right hand—specifically, his right pinky finger. Now facing Matthew, he clumsily signs with his left hand, ‘Have you…have you ever heard of these kinds of things? When you make a promise, you swear on it, and then, you cross your pinky with the other kid?’

Matthew nodded. ‘I know Alfred makes those _all the time,_ ’ he added with a dismissive wave, shaking his head at the mention of his younger brother. ‘What is this going to be, then?’ he continued, looking expectantly at the other with hope in his eyes.

‘You see… after my mother died, I’ve always been afraid of making these kinds of things. We. We took this very seriously. She... she said she was going to be there for me, always, no matter what happens, but… but…’ Lars replies back, his hand gestures getting sloppier towards the end before he stops and his hands start trembling at the thoughts that had entered his mind. Matthew understood silently, or tried to, squeezing the hands in comfort.

The stuffed rabbit was given to Lars along with that promise made to him. The one who’d made it had gone around and broke it. He was still upset about that, sometimes.

‘I think… I think she would’ve… been happy. I just want… Matthew, are we going to _stay_ friends? Through whatever happens to us? _No matter what?_ Are you… are you going to leave?’ Lars began again, green eyes serious as stone. This was a matter of the heart, not to be joked about.

Glad to be wanted at all, Matthew signed then offered a pinky. 'I promise to be your best friend, forever, and ever. Even if the sun explodes. Because Daddy said that won't happen for a super long time. At least seventy bazillion years. That's how long I'll be your best friend.'

‘Until the end of time. Or the end of the world. Whichever would come first, because… because uncle Gilbert told me nobody knows when the world is going to end. It wouldn’t end while we’re growing up, right?’ Lars confirmed, touching his pinky with the other and hooking it together. It was the sign that the agreement was sealed between them. ‘I’ll protect you until the end, Matthew. I’ve seen the bullies. They’ll never stop. Not unless I’m around. I swear on that, too…’ he added a few moments later.

'I'll make you smile, and you can be my bunny knight.' Matthew agreed, as their pinkies separated.

Neither child knew that those words would resonate for years into the future. It would shape their lives in unseen ways, define who they would become. Today, they were just the heartfelt words of children. The world outside this shanty tree house, this party, Ivan's mother watching through a kitchen window... None of them understood the bond forged. They all would... in time.


	11. Itching to See You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay, real-life was a nightmare. We're back on the kiddy track now!

Normally, the Beilschmidt household would be a buzz of activity this time of the day, with the sound of three voices shouting at each other to _hurry up, pass the salt, let’s go we’re going to be late_ —but today, all was abnormally quiet. The only noises one could hear were the grumbling sighs, the hissing, and the blessed relief of a cold shower once the water hit their skin—

The entire house was under quarantine.

It had been quarantined for almost two and a half weeks, now.

All because Ludwig hadn’t double-checked the three children’s medical papers before they flew across the ocean and settled into their new life here.

The albino uncle was the only one safe from the scourge, having contracted the disease while he was in the miserable hell of a tropical jungle somewhere far off in Asia. His entire platoon had contracted it, and they’d all suffered in utter misery together. They had resorted to rubbing mud all over their itching bodies and resisting the urge to scratch otherwise they would be pock-marked and scarred for life once it had abated.

It was for this reason Gilbert now played the role of unofficial ‘doctor’ of the entire household, being the only one immune from the virus that had spread from the children, and had even caught his younger brother doing paperwork.

That was the last straw for the albino.

 _“Ludwig! What did I tell you about working when you’re supposed to be resting?!”_ came the very-much German shouting from the master bedroom.

 _“Don’t you shout at me like that!”_ the younger brother retorted in an equally-loud voice.

 _“How are you supposed to recover if you keep pushing yourself?! Didn’t your office mates tell you to lay off working and just rest?!”_ he hollered back.

The argument was heard, plain as day throughout the upper floor of the house. The door to Claude’s room now had a sign that promised death upon entry, along with the word ‘infectious’ added at the bottom. Léanne’s door had a similar warning, only in much more childish scratching.

There was only one other door open, and for the briefest of moments, a small figure peeked out, hoping that the coast was clear. He couldn’t _stand_ being stuck in his room for days on end, having to incessantly roll around on his bed and resist the urge to scratch his skin off. Cool Uncle Gilbert had already warned Lars not to scratch at the marks, because if he did he would be marked for life.

It sounded like the other was speaking from experience.

Hoping that he wasn’t going to get caught for sneaking out of his room, he slipped down the hallway on socked feet and made a mad dash for the kitchen, hoping to look for something that _wasn’t_ potato pancakes to eat. Oh, how the three children had wailed in various stages of distress and disgust that they were absolutely done with the root crop, but their father (and their uncle) wasn’t going to take ‘no’ for an answer.

It was up to Lars to make a run for the phone in the kitchen, and hopefully contact Matthew for some salvation in food form when suddenly… oh no. In his rush to get to the phone to call Matthew’s house, he’d forgotten that the other was incapable of hearing him. What a stupid idea!

Shrugging, he was about to lift the phone off the cradle and call him anyway when Gilbert came down into the kitchen, still red-faced and angry from yelling at his younger brother.

 _ **“Bratwurst! What are you doing?! Who are you calling?!”**_ he thundered out, and like a deer caught in headlights the youngest child dropped the phone, not hearing the loud clattering noise of the phone crashing to the floor as he looked at the other with his green eyes wide.

“I, uh… Uncle Gil! I can’t stand potatoes anymore!” the child retorted, pouting at maximum power. He hoped that his pouting face would still work on the other. “Please make something else to eat!”

Gilbert was now faced with the ‘pout attack’. It would normally work on most days, however…

“Lars, go to your room! If you come in contact with anyone else, you’ll infect them!” he continued, his very German accent curling into the English he spoke.

“But I—“ the young boy whined, looking at the dropped phone. “I don’t want to eat potatoes anymore!” he added a few moments later, screwing up his face. Seeing that the ‘pout attack’ didn’t work, it was time to try the ‘temper tantrum’ follow-up.

“Listen, Laurence Willem van den Berg-Beilschmidt,” the older man continued, placing his hands on his hips as he did so while narrowing his eyes as he stared the child down. “…in order for you to get well, you need to eat vegetables! And that includes potatoes!”

“I don’t want potatoes anymore! Uncle Gil, please, **_anything_** but potatoes!” Lars whined, now crossing his arms to try and maximize the full effect that he was going for. Only the albino had the right to call him by his legal name at this point, so he let that one mention of his real name slide.

While the child tried to lure the adult into submission, Gilbert knew that the other was attempting to guilt-trip him. Years of experience in the German Army had steeled him to such manner of emotional attacks. He’d basically seen it all at this point.

Drawing his mouth into a thin line, he shook his head.

 _“Nein,_ bratwurst. You need to get better! You have it easy, honestly. When I came down with your little spotty problem, I had to keep applying mud all over my skin for two and a half weeks. It was _that_ unbearable. And we were even in a jungle,” he said with a tone of finality as he crossed his arms and approached the sick youngster. “Go to your room, or else I’ll carry you myself.”

“…don’t carry me,” was all the young child grumbled as he stomped back up the stairs, leaving the phone hanging off the hook as the stomping noise faded away, followed by an eventual door slamming itself shut.

It was utter hell keeping law and order in an infested house when everyone else was sick with the same damned thing.

For Matthew, it was a different kind of hell.

The past two weeks at school were lonely without his self-appointed ‘bunny knight’, and the other kids were ganging up on him. They were taking advantage of Lars’s absence by pushing him around and taking his things. There was even a point where they’d almost taken his food away, had Teacher Michelle not arrived on time to shoo the other children away so that she could keep the wheaten-blonde company.

‘Are you okay?’ the teacher asked, crouching down and addressing Matthew. ‘You’ve been so sad lately.’

Honestly, the times when their homeroom teacher would talk to him was what was keeping the child going at this point.

‘How long will it be before Lars returns?’ Matthew asked, a pout very evident on his face. ‘They won’t stop bothering me.’

‘His uncle called here and informed me that he’s sick with chicken pox—and that you shouldn’t go there to his house because everyone else at their home has been infected,’ she replied. She knew how ridiculously close the two were, and decided to humor the other child. ‘It’s going to be a while before he gets better.’

‘But—what about the lessons he’s missed so far? How’s he going to catch up?’ the child returned, panicky signing at the thought.

‘I’ll take care of that for him. For now, just let me know when they start bothering you again. I’ll keep an eye on them,’ she continued a few moments later, before rising up and giving him a pat on the head.

‘But—‘ he tried to add on a few moments later, before watching as she turned around to speak with the other children, her mouth moving and saying things that he couldn’t understand. The frown on his face grew more before he returned to his quiet little corner of the classroom, waiting to be picked up by either Dad or Papa.

The teacher was a wonderful lady, but she understood nothing. She didn't understand the promise Lars made in that tree house. She didn't know how fun or cool Lars was, how brave he could be. Most of all, the teacher didn't know how hard it was to be so alone in a silent world. Other children didn't _want_ to be his friend. Matthew had hardly given up on humanity, but he could see the difference between the morbidly curious and true kindness.

So it was that Matthew would put up with the pushing and mean things from other children. His friend and protector would return, and order would return to the universe. Cupcakes would be had by all!


	12. New Year, New Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> four years later, grade 5

It was a nightmare, honestly.

The previous Histories teacher had quit and Principal Zwingli was rushing to look for a replacement before the school year began. Adding onto his distress was the fact that the Physical Education teacher had _also_ decided to resign, stating that "too much stress" had driven him apart from his family. That, along with an injury that had definitely pushed the resignation forward, wasn't helping things.

He was in a serious pickle now. He needed _two_ teachers, but where was he going to find them on such short notice? Nobody had responded to the wanted ads he had put up on the local job hunting website, which was discouraging.

The goddamn school board finally did their jobs for once, offering to bring in fresh transfers from elsewhere. Mr. Yao and Mr. Køhlerson.

From the sound of their surnames, Vash deduced they weren't locals. They certainly had great resumes. This Mr. Køhlerson was former medical military with a variety of gym teacher and nurse jobs. On paper, he was a sensible man.

Oh, how _wrong_ he was. But he didn't know about it yet. Scanning the resume intently, he sees the number to contact and gives it a ring. Surely the man was free today for an interview?

The phone rang twice before it was answered. A man with a faint Danish accent answered. “Speaking.”

"Are you free this afternoon for an interview?" Vash inquired, hopeful. Gods, even if he had years to practice his English, he still had his curling Swiss-German accent on him whenever he was nervous.

“Who is this?”

 _Fuck._ He knew he forgot something! "The local Board of Education sent me your resumé. You've handled physical education classes previously, correct?" He asked, mentally crossing his fingers.

“Oh, from Grand River Central Elementary School. Mr. Zwi… Zwa… Zwun…” The other guy trailed off after a few legitimate tries. It was more attempts than most would go.

"You have an interesting surname yourself. Are you from Norway?" Vash ventures. Hell, he couldn't tell most Scandinavian surnames apart. It was a mess and a half with Germanic surnames as it is.

“No, Denmark actually. But you wanted me for an interview?” Mr. Køhlerson was very eager indeed. The familiar screeches of children echoed in the background of the call.

"Yes, if you have the time? Can I expect you here by three-thirty in the afternoon?" He hoped. That should give the other man enough time to prepare and come on down to the school. "Would you need directions coming here, or can you manage?"

“I can definitely be there. I shouldn’t have any -- EMIL, PUT DOWN THE FISH BOWL RIGHT NOW!” Vash couldn't help but smirk at the familiar squabbles. School life was full of them. Ending the call hurriedly, Mr. Køhlerson was evidently busy.

That left Mr. Yao. The teacher had settled from China rather recently, with a fresh Canadian citizenship. He was due for a real interview tomorrow, only corresponding through emails until now.

 _I wonder why he doesn't like being called?_ The grumpy principal wondered. Taking a look at his resume, his eyebrows went up slightly. Was this man for real?

Sighing, he sits down in front of the computer terminal and wakes it from sleep, taking his time with composing a proper correspondence with the other man.

A principal’s work was never done. After smoothing out a teacher fight over the staff coffee machine, he handled several detention kids and a call from the school board. Always and forever, the school budget was stretched a little thinner.

It wasn’t until the secretary knocked on his door did Vash realize it was 3:30 in the afternoon.

“A Mr. Køhlerson is here to see you.”

"Please, send him in," the frazzled man said, nursing a cup of tea. He could never really understand why the rest of the staff liked that stupid coffee machine anyway.

The man that entered was tall and loud. His red shirt and white tie was loud. His hair was wild blonde nonsense. He hadn’t said a word and he was already screaming his existence to this bland office.

Eyes watering for a few moments at the loud choice of color, Vas set the mug on the desk. He walked around to shake the taller man's hand. Never was he going to admit he had a height complex, especially with the taller staff members. Nope.

"Glad you could make it," Vash began, hoping that this interview would be painless. "Please, have a seat. Would you like coffee? Tea? Juice?"

“No, I’m great. Thanks.” Mr. Køhlerson replied, sitting as requested. “So you’re the boss man here.” His informality seemed in direct opposition to his _very_ regimented resume. This guy came across as an over eager youth counselor, not a teacher.

Vash’s eyebrows rose at the informality this man was exuding. Was he really a teacher? _No use beating around the bush. Might as well get right into it,_ the grumpy man thought as he took a sip of his tea.

"Why did you choose to become a teacher? Your aura is... exuberant," Vash spoke seriously, glancing to the resume on his computer. he reached for his notepad and began jotting down things between sips of tea. They were little observations, actually.

Mr. Køhlerson was alight at the subject, a big kid himself. “I do it all for the kids. I joined the military to help people, but it’s not the kind of help I thought it would be. I’m much happier helping little dudes. What I’m doing when I teach matters and that’s… really worth it.”

At the mention of a military background, Vash's eyes looked up. "How long did you serve?" He inquired. Mr. Køhlerson didn't look like he'd seen action directly at the front lines. He wasn’t scarred, without the fear of death in his eyes.

“Five years in Africa. I guarded doctors and informed the public on vaccines… mostly.” The Danish man trailed off at the last word, a brief flash of grief beneath heaving ego. “It wasn’t the life for me.” He finished up, once more cheerful.

"Where… actually, when did you start teaching? What part of being a teacher do you find the most challenging?" He continued. The pen scratched on, taking down more notes as they went along.

This subject was one Mr. Køhlerson relished. “I’ve been teaching seven years. I started off as a sex ed teacher and boy are parents… _particular_. The kids are great, but the parents…” The man rolled his blue eyes. It was a feeling all teachers knew well.

There was a brief twitch in Vash's eyes. Ah, sex education. One of the stickier classes he had to constantly deal with. "How did you get to physical education from there?" He inquired. Either he was missing something, or the choice was arbitrary.

The answer was very blunt, and very Danish. “My last school, there were way too many fat kids. I wanted to make exercise fun, and get them all moving. Try and get them on the right track, you know?”

"Inspired by the general population, I take. What age level are you most comfortable handling? Elementary? High school?" He knew that the high school department constantly went through teachers like it was tissue paper. High schoolers were tougher to deal with.

“Elementary… High school kids are so… They don’t care about my message. They don’t put down their phones. I can’t reach them after 15, not unless I’m given permission to remove phones. It’s a problem I think all teachers are dealing with.” At least the man was honest. Phones were a scourge on the education system like no device before them.

"Oh, trust me, you're not the _only one_ who's been having problems with gadgets. I've already given my teachers permission to take phones away during class but their parents are giving me flak about it. What for? We survived without them! We made it through our education without these comforts. Wouldn't you think so?" He replied. Maybe he was a _little_ overenthusiastic about it.

“When I can get to them, I like to frame whatever curriculum around current events or talk about real athletes with them… something to ground them in the real world…” Mr. Køhlerson schemed a moment in his chair.

"Some of the richer children already _have_ gadgets and it's _really_ disturbing. What do parents **_not_ ** understand about the dangers of addiction?" Vash nodded, sighing as well. "Then they blame the teachers for not doing their job when _they're_ the ones not paying attention. It's a vicious cycle. A sad one too."

Mr. Køhlerson’s peppy cheer seemed unbreakable. “I’m trying to give them a reason to look up is all. Show them that basketball is cool, or sex isn’t dangerous… or that fishbowls shouldn’t be hats…” He stared into the void, as all parents do from time to time, then snapped back to reality and smiled.

"You have children? I… overheard you shouting something about a fish bowl," Vash commented with a wry smile.

The flood of Noah couldn’t compare to the army of kid pictures in this guy’s wallet. When the guy was about to shut up, another photo was explained at length. “... and this one is Lukas and Emil at a waterpark. There’s another one I have of Emil as a pretend spaceman!” Mr. Køhlerson was already digging it out.

"You really like children, I can tell. Where do they study at now? Are they homeschooled? You do know, any teacher who has children that go here gets a discount on their tuition fees, among other things…"

Was Vash desperate? _Maybe_. He needed stable teachers, and those were hard to find these days!

The teacher perked up at the offer. “Assuming I get the job, I will need to enroll my sons. At least, before they destroy the house with arts and crafts.”

"I might need you for sex education classes. Would you be alright with that setup, if ever?"

“I’m fine with it. Cocks are cocks.” The carefree nature of Mr. Køhlerson clashed magnificently with the grave seriousness of sexual education. Many parents were going to be pissed.

"Do get your syllabus ready.  I hope you can handle a bunch of rowdy children," he remarked, scribbling down some final notes.

“Can do!” With that, The other man stood and took his timely leave.

Hopefully the next teacher would be as good as this one, if more serious. If everyone wore burning red shirts to work, the whole place would be blind.

* * *

Another interview, another day. Vash was never comfortable in these situations. Mr. Yao was bound to be normal. His resume was perfect. It was surprising when Mr. Yao had arrived slightly early, seated and waiting. Vash didn’t even have time to make tea.

The man was normal by all appearances, obviously of Chinese descent. His hair was longer than most, scraped back into a black ponytail. He was _not_ dressed like a stop sign, which as an improvement from the last guy.

"Mr Yao. You're early.” Vash strolled over to introduce himself. "Thank you for coming. Please, follow me." He led the way to the principal's office. Waiting until the other man joined him, Vash took his seat behind the ornate mahogany desk It wasn’t real mahogany, but it was close enough. It was the only beautiful thing in the room, as most of the other furniture was worn down due to age.

Vash took up the notepad, testing the pen to make sure it was good to go. After gathering his thoughts, he decided to start right off the bat. This man's resume was really impressive. Mr. Yao seemed like he should be teaching university or college.

"How do you handle discipline in the classroom, and how important is it when it comes to teaching and learning?" Vash began, resting his chin on his fingers.

The Chinese man spoke, his Mandarin accent powerful. Even if the grammar left something to be desired, the passionate sentiment was there. "Discipline? Very important, need to make sure it stay with student. Must have them realize that learning vital, cannot miss out on what teacher say. Each lesson different, cannot go back readily once lesson done.”

"Interesting way to put it.” Vash made notes as he replied, turning skeptical. There had been stories of the ilk that came from communist China. The principal was unsure such an authoritarian style would work in his school.

“Why leave China? According to your resume, you were well respected.” This would be the determiner of employment. Yao was already not sounding great.

It was a look of regret, resignation, and humble defeat on Yao’s  face. He was a beaten soldier in a private war of his own. “I not agree with state mandate. Was big problems. I want teach history, but state say I teach… communist party lies. My… soul bad from this. I want better for kids. All kids, not only own.”

Grammar and thick accent aside, the man since seemed sincere. The guy legally clawed his way out of China to escape communism, and teach the truth. There was no purpose more worthy. After a few more basic questions, Vash stood.

He offered a hand. “Get your syllabus ready.  I hope you can handle a bunch of brats.”

Yao stood and bowed, unused to western mannerisms. “I will try best, Mr. Zwingli.”

Yet another ridiculous addition to Vash’s crew. There was also the little pickle of settling the… _feud_ between his Home Economics and Music teachers. 


	13. School Mornings

The PTSD wasn't getting any better. Gilbert had blown five years in Canada after his discharge from the German military. He still barely slept, jerking awake in the dark of night. The faces of his dead friends still awaited him every time he closed his eyes. Be with your family, his more functional military associates said. Return to civilian life and get in touch with humanity, they said. Yeah. That was working so well.

Gilbert kept trying to recover his old ignorant life. He attended the many school appointments. He helped in the bake sales. That Russian boy's mother crushed everyone in bake sale profits so it was a moot point. Still Gilbert tried a little to make gingersnaps for his brother's flock.

Another night of broken sleep led to Gilbert making early breakfast for the kids. They certainly were growing up fast. Claude, such a sweet kid, he was already registering for college. Leanne was coming into her own as she now entered grade eight. Then Laurence... ugh, Laurence.

The child was an inferno of energy, that now looked the part. He had discovered Ludwig's addiction to hair gel, and also became hooked. Gone was the shaggy hair of braided yesteryear. It was now spiked and short like a cartoon character at all times. Gilbert admittedly missed seeing Laurence with his very gay deaf friend, braiding each others long loose hair with daisies.

That was another thing that bothered Gilbert. Ludwig, and Matthew's stuffy father Arthur, had completely forbidden Gilbert and Francis from saying a word. Gilbert just wanted to blog about his brother's boy discovering love! Francis was in the same boat, a social media whore of the largest magnitude. You could sometimes witness the flamboyant parent being restrained from sending tweets and Instagram images of their progeny being gay together.

The waffles with blueberries were finished when all three kids tumbled sleepily into the kitchen. Ludwig must have been still hogging the bathroom. He basically turned his hair into a shell from all the hair gel he abused.

“Holy shit, it's not potatoes! Yes!” one of the kids uttered in shocked surprise. Gilbert didn't care about swears at all. As a military brat, he heard every curse under the sun. In a world of violence, a few swears was nothing.

All four dogs were present, glued to Gilbert's legs. Four cute sets of eyes followed every move of the waffle process, ears perked above greying muzzles. They were starting to get old now. Ludwig would be a destroyed mess when they all died. Gilbert had been just as destroyed when a tree fell on his mint condition 1973 BMW 2002. That little car had been his restoration project of four years, polished and cleaned with love.

“Eat up brats, then I'll dump you off at school.” Gilbert announced, eating his own waffle dry like a giant cookie. Maybe a few pieces made it to the floor for good doggies that sit in mannerly order.

After breakfast, dropping Claude off for his morning courses at the college was easy. It was closer to the house than the elementary school by a long shot. “Have sex with everyone in there, it's the only time you'll be packed into a building full of hot people!” Gilbert yelled playfully out the window in German.

Everyone cringed, except Laurence. That boy had the emotional perception of a brick. “Don't embarrass me Gil!” Claude hissed, hiding behind his hair fringe as he receded into the crowds. Ah, teens. They didn't know what they had.

Next was the smaller brick school, teeming with morning rush children. Leanne got out and gave a little wave. “Bye Uncle Gil.”

“See you tonight, Leanne.” Gil waved back, then talked as he returned his attention to the front. “Now Lars, try not to punch or bite...” The boy was gone like a bullet, chasing after his gay friend. They crashed into each other with a squeal of giggles and hugged. It wasn't even a bro hug. It was a full blown super hug... that was still going on. God, they were so damn gay.

Gilbert hoped Lars could fight, because he was going to need it.

* * *

Arthur's day always started off the same, or as similar as he could manage. He would wake to dawn, trapped in Francis's clingy arms. The handsome man barely needed to try looking great. It was a mystery why the Broadway actor needed to tie up the bathroom everyday for an hour. Along with Alfred, Francis was a complete bathroom dictator.

Freeing himself of a very cuddly husband, Arthur didn't bother to muffle his steps. These days, the rest of the family slept like the dead. In the intimate light of sunrise, he savoured the sweet silence. It was occasionally broken by jagged snores.

It was almost a miracle Matthew was deaf. He shared a room with his brother, who snored. Snoring was a vast understatement. It was more akin to cutting down a forest. In rest or waking, Alfred was a wrecking ball of sound. However, gone was his gremlin ways of screaming and stomping around. At twelve years old, Alfred was becoming quite the little charmer.

With a sly loving glance to his little ones, Arthur chuckled and slipped downstairs. Exercise shorts and a faded oxford T-shirt were on hand. Only one other family member was up so early. Excited panting and the tack of claws on wooden floor indicated the dog was at the base of the stairs.

Clicking on the light, Kumajirou was indeed waiting. The fluffy white dog was wagging it's curled tail like a hair ejecting propeller, panting in excitement. Originally intended as a buddy for a lonely Matthew, the dog was quick to become a work out pal. After all, Arthur was a leash master.

“Hello chap, you can't wait to run can you.” Arthur greeted softy, petting the happy creature. His hand was given a sloppy lick in confirmation. “Let me change first.” he whispered, proceeding to change in the living room. He could risk it most days, since no one was up. Even Matthew took time to rise with the sun.

Quick to dress, Arthur was soon out the door in well loved running shoes. Jogging wasn't just a motion of limbs, a passing of movement for him. With headphones in, it was an aerobic escape from stress. In this tiny moment of time, work and family didn't control him. Well, not as much. There was still that annoying pale bastard that was embedded in Arthur's life.

Gilbert Beilschmidt was like rat poison to Arthur, invading school events and social time. It couldn't be helped, since he was Lar's chatty uncle. Matthew was super glued to his very best friend, so the grumpy father didn't have a choice. It wasn't like Gilbert was a bad person. He was just prideful, and noisy, and constantly talking about sports or cars. Okay, maybe there were a few reasons Arthur avoided his future brother-in-law.

Matthew and Lars were probably going to get married anyway. That was a horrifying thought. That German lot over with a small herd of animals, and baskets of unpronounceable sausages. Oh god, their so very German laughter. Their names that stretched all the way around the room. Arthur barely survived his own wedding to Francis. A German, Dutch, French, and English wedding would make a train crash look like a pleasure cruise.

No. It was best to avoid Gilbert on the only time slot Arthur had to himself. The albino didn't jog every day, but there was always a risk. To eliminate the threat of being harassed with joy for life, Arthur took a right instead of a left on his route. The dog faltered slightly, confused by the change in scenery, then adapted and resumed towing Arthur along. Ah yes. Nothing but sunrise, Frank Sinatra in his ears, and bouncy dog trot.

Everything was just peachy, until it wasn't. One block from returning home, a new threat emerged. It was another jogger, they were smiling as they approached. It was a tall looking fellow, with a shock of untamed hair and fierce blue eyes. Arthur doggedly stared at the ground, hiding all interest. It was too late.

“Hello!” The stranger greeted brightly, the love child of a frat house and a closet of protein powder. “It's so cool to see other dudes up this early! My name is Mathias, let’s jog together!” His voice was annoying. His burning red workout pants were annoying. His teeth were so bright in contrast to his tan, they could blind children. God forbid that this bounding block of testosterone had produced such monsters.

Arthur only grunted and kept up his casual jogging. This “Mathias” took it as an invitation to tag along. “What a great day for exercise! I just moved here but I love Kitchener already!”

“Yes. Wonderful.” Arthur offered, not trying in the least. He stopped at a lamp post so the dog could do it's thing.

“So, how long do you jog for? I aim to get the ideal heart rate, before my morning strength work out. Then I have to dump off my kids. You look like a kid man.”

“Got two.” Why couldn't that infernal creature leave Arthur alone? Did he not see the cutting levels of disinterest? All Arthur wanted to do was listen to Sinatra and run!

“NO WAY! Bro, I have two!” The levels of volume were approaching Alfred levels now, tainted further by the curse of “Bro”. Finally, Arthur was freed of the conversation. The guy's smart watch started beeping at him loudly. “Oh sorry bro, my heart rate is dropping. Gotta get moving, but maybe I'll see you later!” With that, the weirdo ran off to unknown locations.

Pleased to be rid of the human energizer bunny, Arthur resumed returning home. By the time he arrived, life was in full swing. Yelling and nonsense was going on upstairs. Alfred was heard arguing with Francis through thin floors.

“Stop stealing my hair curler! I need to get my look ready!” The boy went on.

“Non, It was my curler first!” Francis hissed.

The bathroom battle had already begun. Alfred and Francis easily took two hours to get ready. Between smashing the snooze button and the small city of styling products, no one got to use the toilet. Meanwhile, a deaf Matthew was probably still half dreaming in bed. On sock feet, Arthur entered the boy's shared bedroom.

A groggy rat's nest of long hair in crooked pyjamas, one boy wasn't near ready. Matthew was still at stumbling out of bed stage. He yawned wide and looked to his dad. He blinked slowly, then signed in greeting. _“Can I go pee yet?”_

“Maybe.” Arthur replied via gestures. He then banged both fists on the lone bathroom door. _**“OI! GET MOVING! PEOPLE NEED TO PISS OUT HERE!”** _Arthur yelled, summoning all the English salt he possessed within.

“You can't rush perfection!” Francis countered.

“Yeah! I'm working on my public image!” Alfred agreed, also protected by the door.

 _ **“USE THE VANITY IN THE BEDROOM!”**_ Arthur commanded, in no mood for slowpokes. Matthew needed to shower just as badly as Arthur did, entering the vulnerable beginnings of the teen years. This equated to body odour that could kill small animals. Not even Alfred with his expensive deodorants was free of teen boy musk. It was something Mother nature inflicted on everyone. She was a bitch like that.

It took twenty more minutes for both males to exit the bathroom in the end. Francis left, with a dramatic sigh and a dazzling hair flip. Alfred followed, looking every little bit like a miniature movie star. The little lovable monster had taken to Francis's glamour and obsession with social media. Entire car trips could be derailed if either of them needed to 'get pictures for Instagram'. Arthur didn't know what that meant, but it was annoying and laborious.

“I am ready,” Francis announced, looking far too attractive. He left the bathroom with flourish, in designer clothes. Arthur was honestly stunned by how fabulous the actor could be. The majority of Arthur's salt and sass washed away, leaving a few fragmented words falling out of his face. It took a second to compose himself again. _“Must you take so long! Matthew needed to pee!”_

With a wink, the gorgeous husband replied “I'll work on breakfast, and get the babies to school. You get ready for work, mon cherie.” How frustrating it was to be cowed by such grace and acting talent. Arthur didn't have long to dwell on his harmless jealousies and loving fancies. After a quick shower and speeding up a lethargic Matthew, Arthur tossed on a suit and work shirt. He barely had his tie on when a charismatic shriek spiked through the floor. The cause was clear already.

“ **ALFRED**! Why did you bring that _thing_ into the house!”

Arthur smiled, knowing what was coming next. He secretly enjoyed all the children's nonsense, even if he was the only true disciplinarian. He was already walking down the stairs, tucking away for mirth for later enjoyment. Right now it was time to affirm his role as the “bad guy”, since Francis had the spine of a worm for yelling at the kids.

_**“ARTHUR, YOUR TERRIBLE CHILD BROUGHT A SNAKE IN A BUCKET!”** _

It was so wonderful to have mornings with his family.


	14. Bros Forever

Another bad sleep this morning. Faces of the dead clawing from the darkness at his skin. Responsibility, once light, now weighed hundreds of pounds. It had been a chore to shower and leave the house. Gilbert just needed to breathe. God, he could do that. He said he was fine. He promised Ludwig he could totally watch the kids at the community pool.

He promised he could. He also promised to protect his troops, and they were all dead. Splashing and children screaming echoed in the tiled water space. Soldiers screaming and drowning in their own blood in South Africa. It was all too hard to separate.

Gilbert needed air. He was suffocating, he was going to die in this blue tiled room. The kids were fine at the pool, there were two trained lifeguards on duty. Growing dizzy from lack of air, Gilbert exited out a side door. It was obviously where the smokers went around here. Yellow filters were crushed into pale pavement, the visage dotted with stomped ashes.

The blue sky was above Gilbert, sparing clouds dappling his pale face. He couldn't feel the warmth he should. He only felt cold and terrified, trembling in the fall breeze. Why did he survive that rainy ambush? He should have been stronger, faster, more cunning. Five other families were missing fathers, sons, and... _Everything was Gilbert's fault_.

A family pulled up in a red Sedan, Denmark flag stripes across it in bragging fashion. A tall fit blonde exited the tacky ride, looking familiar. Ah yes, Lars's very enthusiastic gym teacher from school. Ever blue eyes locked with Gilbert's albino red. Thank science for contact lenses.

Two early teens tagged along with the man, barely resembling him. One was garbed in black, radiating gloom. The other was a wild eyed lad wearing a fake astronaut helmet. The gym teacher spoke to what was likely his offspring. “Go inside, I'll be there in a minute.”

The boys nodded and headed in to play, while the adult came closer. Blue eyes, beautiful. The same as the many men Gilbert had shot in action. The guerrilla soldier was nearing, raising his piss quality AK-47 to fire. Gilbert was still in Africa, he never left. He was in hell and he deserved it.

The soldier stopped, gripping him by the shoulders. His words shattered the reality, and the death. “Bro, you gotta breathe for me. Okay? Breathe.”

Gilbert blinked, taking a deep breathe, filling until it hurt. He was set down on a bench outside a noisy community building, one with a pool. Right, that pool. The pool with all his brother's kids in it. After several shaky breaths, he looked up.

“I can't stop fuckin' shaking. It's my fault. They all died.” He mumbled, unsure if he was in Canada at all.

The soldier was not the soldier. He was the totally ripped teacher from Lars's school. Even in this deranged state, the man's Red Bull shirt was goddamn awesome. “Come here, just breathe. Okay? Breathe.” The other gave a strong side hug with one arm, oozing confidence.

Held carefully, Gilbert was rocked with care. He didn't know how long he was soothed in such ways. He wanted to cry, scream, break something, but all he could manage was shaking violently. It took time, but his heart calmed. His paled trembling stilled. The sun felt warm on his face, like it was supposed to.

Gilbert pushed away and stood, covering his face in shame. “Sorry you have to see that. It was not awesome.”

“No problem bro. We met at the last PTA, remember? I'm Matthias.” The athletic wonder was friendly as a golden retriever, with a shock of blonde hair to match. He offered a hand to shake formally.

Gilbert hesitated, then shook it rigorously. It was a firm admirable hand shake. “Gilbert, uncle of a certain shit disturber.”

“I hadn't noticed.” the other laughed along. There was no further discussion of Gilbert's PTSD attack. He was infinitely grateful. Instead, the two watched kids splash and frolic. They relaxed in the hot tub, not bothering to chatter until the population went down. Soon it was just the two of them observing the pool a few metres away. They exchanged quick glances, not needing much to communicate.

Sipping a beer he slipped in under a towel, Matthias spoke softly. “How long have you been out of service?”

“Five years. You?” Gilbert replied curtly. The other man wasn't blind. He saw the service tattoos on a shoulder. Gilbert had a troop emblem on his back, a massive black eagle on his leg.

“Fifteen. It wasn't for me.” A cool voice of reason, one not heard from this 'Matthias' before. Normally he was pep and cheer embodied in human format.

“It's not for anyone.” Gilbert's solemn words hung in the air, heavy and real.

Instantly, the climate of the conversation lightened. “Which kiddos are yours?” Matthias prompted, smile bright.

“Oh they're my brother's kids. I'm a glorified babysitter. There's Leanne, and Laurence. They're the most awesome bratwursts ever.” Gilbert could never tire of bragging about his second hand kids. He was fiercely protective of his brother's brood.

“Not as awesome as my kids. Lukas is going to be the lead singer of a death metal band. Seen him? See my little broski? He's a badass.” Matthias shot back, just as esteemed over his children. The question in child was a gloomy creature, paddling slowly around the pool like a miserable cat.

In this manner, Gilbert and Matthias lost complete track of time. They talked about their kids, working out, what sports car was cooler, and what celebrity would win in a fist fight. It couldn't be helped, Matthias was so interesting!

A small army of kids stood before both parental forces, looking impatient. “Dad I'm gonna miss my animal documentary.” One kid, possibly Emil, complained to Matthias loudly. Lars was also rather cross, though Matthew looked happy as can be. All the little ones had brought friends along. “Uncle Gil I wanna go home. I'm pruning up.”

Matthew, and Leanne's new friend Elise nodded in agreement. Matthias chuckled, sitting up on the pool side bench. He was shirtless with a towel slung around his shoulders, his fitness displayed for all to see. He was something to marvel at, certainly.

 _“Uncle GIL! Focus!”_ Leanne hissed, pulling the distracted man out of his thoughts.

“Um, right. I guess we can head off,” The albino muttered, easily distracted. It was probably the PTSD, or lack of sleep, giving him a run for his money. It had been half a decade since he woke up without nightmares.

“Well, see you around dude. High five!” Matthias bid goodbye, offering the most awesome of parting gestures.

Gilbert high fived the hell out of it, a cheesy grin on his face. “Down low!” He added, excited.

“Down low! Hell yeah!” Matthias slapped back, very into it. “Around the town–”

“Dad, I will poop in the pool if we don't get moving!” The younger of Matthias's children threatened. Emil had that hard edged look in his eyes. The kid could probably shit on command, for all the seriousness his father reacted with.

“Fine, ruining all my fun. Ungrateful, both of you, ungrateful! Let's go,” Matthias sighed, standing up. He was so tall. Lord why was he so tall? “See you around Bro!” He offered a final farewell, cocking finger guns at Gilbert and winking. With that, he was off to change.

“Are you drunk?” Lars asked Gilbert bluntly. The boy was brave today.

“No! Why the hell... I'm not drunk! I'm going okay!?” the uncle sputtered indignantly. He did feel bizarre though, almost nervous and flighty. It was probably nothing.

With multiple change rooms, the statuesque gym teacher was not encountered again. The small zoo of kids was eventually dry and dressed. Lars wouldn't stop wet towel snapping people, until Matthew swamped him in the change room with handfuls of soap. The girls were honestly the only behaved ones. They giggled and braided each other's damp hair while Gil tried to contain two excited twelve year old boys.

Eventually, Elise was dropped off at her father's impressive colonial. The guy, whoever he was, was obviously rich. His house was even bigger than at home, and Ludwig earned a six figure salary as a corporate accountant. There was no use in trying to drop off Matthew. The growing boy was glued to Lars worse than ever. Since grade one, they had become a symbiotic pair of sorts.

* * *

Days passed. Matthew had long since gone home, and life rolled on. Lars would practice his violin after school. Leanne would talk on her phone to friends. Claude was almost twenty now, beginning to leave the nest. He was rarely home at all, absorbed in school and a dog-heavy social life.

Gilbert was starting to get his life together as well. He turned over a nice profit doing small time repair and restoration out of the garage. He had years of experience in garages before he ever set foot in the military lifestyle. Additionally, he was a persistent source of authority on the property. If Ludwig was away at work, the brats would have someone to run to for help.

Today was a cool autumn day. The garage door was retracted open to let in the last of warm summer rays. Gil was tinkering away on a dual head motorcycle engine. He was almost done replacing a faulty cylinder for a client. Engine grease streaked his pale fingers as he ratcheted bolts back on. In the chilled musk of his veritable work space and man cave, he was at peace.

The peace was broken. Matthew of all people bolted in from the connecting kitchen. He flashed a note as he ran by, 'playing hide and seek' neatly printed in small letters. Gilbert cocked an eyebrow, not recalling when the deaf child was invited over. He seemed to come and go as he pleased most days, often taking Laurence with him.

Minutes later, the spiky blonde appeared, panting from running around. “Gil, Mattie and I are playing hide and seek, but he keeps moving around. Have you seen him?”

“It'll cost ya, bratwurst,” Gilbert replied, still assembling the engine. All the while Matthew was stealthy sneaking up on Lars, having hidden behind the door. Bracing for reaction, the uncle never stopped labouring.

There was a predictable shriek seconds later as Matthew scared the daylights out of Laurence. The patter of chasing steps led away. _**“Play safely!”** _Gilbert yelled out absently, not looking at all. Ah, the numb ease of raising little ones. Well, not so little ones. Laurence was growing taller every day, soon to rival Gil in height. The proud uncle was _not_ short, he was average and Ludwig's children were freaks. Lars would be dangling off the edge of his bed soon.

His work zen was ruined once more. A chipper voice interrupted serenity, making Gilbert drop his ratchet. “Hey,” A familiar voice greeted warmly. Looking up from his work, Gilbert couldn't help but flush slightly.

“Hey you,” Gilbert greeted Matthias. Cool Matthias. Awesome Matthias rocking a black turtleneck and grey jeans.

“My children ditched me to hang out with other kids, so I'm bored,” Matthias complained, waiting outside the garage politely.

Gilbert waved him in silently, finished up things. Matthias sat on the totally awesome old leather couch off to one side. It was a regular hiding spot when the veteran was having crushing depression. Finally, the worst security guards of all time rushed excitedly into the garage.

All four dogs swamped a very enthusiastic Matthias, barking and panting. “Look at you! So cute!” Dog wiggles and hair shedding intensified as he gave them all attention. Soon a wiener dog, a golden retriever, German shepherd, and black mixed breed were all competing over who could sit on his lap.

After finishing up work, Gil washed his hands fastidiously. **“Down!”** he ordered in a sharp military tone. All the dogs, well trained despite being spoiled, obeyed instantly, sitting before him.

 _ **“Children!”**_ he spoke next, German crisp as ever. Message received, the dogs hunted down the kids with eager joy. It was a trick Gilbert originally taught to cover his own ass. He was actually absent minded and lost the kids constantly. The dogs would hunt them down and try to sit on them, covering his proverbial ass.

Ludwig now assumed his older brother was some kind of super babysitter. That was far from the case. Gilbert wouldn't remember to eat breakfast if his stomach didn't hurt after a few hours.

“Wow! That's cool bro! You're a dog wizard!” Matthias enthused, clapping.

“Yes, I am awesome. Praise me, praise me.” Gilbert soaked in the adulation.

“Can the dogs do other stuff?” His guest asked, smile childish and bright.

“Oh hell yeah. Watch this!” Gilbert whistled one piercing sound. The tack of dog claws on tile rushed close. The loud complaining of Lars followed the kerfuffle. The dogs were still obeying the previous command at the same time, dragging a very unhappy Lars into the garage by his pants.

 _“Are you done?”_ the twelve year old sulked, barely holding his black punk rock pants on.

 _ **“Let go,”**_ Gilbert ordered in German. The dogs, tails wagging furiously, obeyed, looking up for a treat imploringly. “Good puppies! Yes you are!” He gushed affectionately, going to the bar fridge under a tool covered counter. Four strips of bacon from breakfast were instantly destroyed by the four fluffy companions.

With the attention span of a toddler, the lovable animals were soon running off after a sulky Lars for attention. Alone with Matthias, Gilbert turned to look over his guest. “I forgot. Do you want a drink?”

“What do you have?”

“A nice amber beer, a pale ale, um... some regular beer. Eggnog. Mustard. Engine coolant... and the _fanciest_ water. I can serve it in a cup shaped like a duck.”

Matthias was alight as always at so many options. “Ooh! An amber beer... _served_ in a duck.”

“Good choice my man! Duck beer!” Gilbert faltered a second, wondering if he was being too friendly. He barely knew this gym teacher. No... no this was fine! Matthias was the coolest bro, they high fived and everything!

When was there too much beer? Never? It was hard to say. Somehow, they ended up wasting three hours. The door was long closed and locked. Between Gilbert's amazing Foosball table, playing Grand Theft Auto 4, and drinking more than they should, time vanished. It was only when Ludwig came in from work that Gilbert took notice.

Ludwig kicked off his Italian leather shoes, looking over the two men in disdain. “You are drunk with the gym teacher.”

“I am not drunk, with my cool bro.” Gilbert countered, obviously inebriated.

“Where are the children?” the younger sibling challenged, unimpressed.

“Ugh, you are such a killjoy!”

_**“WHERE ARE THEY?”** _

Gilbert rolled his eyes. He used to be a drill sergeant for German trainees. This mere growl was nothing to him. “Leanne is shopping with Tanya and Elise at the mall. _Yes,_ I have both their phone numbers. Lars is being gay with his deaf little bratwurst upstairs, and Claude is... hell if I know. He's an adult now and it's none of my business.”

Ludwig stopped flashing his parental claws, deeply protective. “I apologize for doubting you. I'm very stressed from work. Where are the dogs? Did they get their pills?” The dogs were obviously napping in a corner, worn out from a one hour game of fetch with Matthias, their new best friend.

“Yes. You can breathe now,” Gilbert teased, tittering after in amusement.

A very drunk Matthias was laid across his lap, flush with joy. “Mr. Awesome responsible here.” He slurred. He then looked up with an admiration and something else equally tangible. Poking Gilbert's cheek, he made a beeping noise. Gilbert couldn't help but burst into laughter at this.

Ludwig sighed, setting down his briefcase. He then methodically pulled his shoes back on. “Gilbert, get your shirt on.”

The older brother squinted in confusion, then looked down. His pale fluffy chest was indeed bare, scars of a gunshot obliterating several faded army tattoos. When did he lose his shirt? Matthias tittered and poked Gilbert's right nipple, making a beep noise again. In this compromised state, Gilbert had no perspective. Everything Matthias did was really funny.

“I found a laugh button, dad.” Matthias rambled, having drank far more. His pants were half kicked off, belt askew.

“Shirt. On. Now. We need to drop Lars's teacher off at his house so he can clean up in time for Monday,” Ludwig ordered, stirring the dogs from rest. A white print shirt that read “100% Sexy” was thrown at Gilbert. It bounced off his face harmlessly.

“My shirt,” Gilbert fumbled to dress himself, but managed. He knew if he wavered or fell now, Ludwig would nag him forever. Truth of the matter was, Gilbert didn't want to stop drinking. He hadn't been this light and playful in a really long time. Something about making a new friend made him feel so... _happy_.

“I'll stay with him after you drop him off. Make sure he gets to a toilet,” Gilbert volunteered in his best sober voice. It seemed to pass inspection today, fooling Ludwig completely.

“That's a good idea, you're functional right now.”

“Awesome,” Gilbert confirmed, going along with the huge lie. He was mostly a hardy drunk, able to walk until the very end. The ride to Matthias's house was disorienting and difficult to process. Still, Gilbert kept a straight face the whole time. After going to the wrong house once, Ludwig took the liberty of swiping the teacher's phone and texted one of his kids for directions.

Matthias's house was quaint and small, neatly cut lawn hosting a shady tree. Two plastic lawn chairs sat beneath, several empty beer bottles still parked nearby. Matthias's considerable muscle mass was supported by Gilbert alone on the lawn.

Ludwig had the passenger side window of his vehicle rolled down as he spoke. “Call me if you need a ride back.”

“Bruder, I'll be _fine_. I'll get a taxi back when he sobers up.”

The younger brother didn't seem to believe these claims. After five years away from battle, Gilbert still had his moments, some in public places. Ludwig squinted at him critically, then sighed and relaxed his posture. “I guess that works. But if you have any anxiety attacks...”

“I'll call you immediately. Go. Make sure your children are not burning the house down.” Gilbert's bluntly expressed reminder made Ludwig pale. With that, he rolled up the window and drove into dimming evening.

Matthias, drunk as ever, silently watched the departure as he leaned on Gilbert. Alone once more, the tanked gym teacher grinned. “More drinking?” At hearing this the paler man smiled back.

“You bet your ass. Let's get fucked up!”

* * *

Morning, crushing morning. It punched Gilbert in the face as he woke slowly. His mattress was softer and warmer than usual. His mattress was also snoring. It was a soft snore, but a snore all the same. Bearing piercing pain, he opened one eye. The room was warm yellows and reds, walls plastered in sports posters. This was not his neat dark room.

Heavy weight shifted behind him, warm and comfortable. There was a yawn as an arm wrapped around his midsection. Gilbert knew. He knew he was in Matthias's bed. He knew they were naked, because he wasn't an idiot. The clothes they wore last night were pooled on the floor, metres away. Blushing hotly, Gilbert hid his face.

 _Oh no, what did he do?_ He had been so drunk, so happy and loose before. Memories, ecstatic and pleasing. Playing more video games, eating sugar cereal... taking each other's clothes off. Christ. He really did it again. This was why he couldn't get drunk with other people. He became attached to them. He would get so damn excited, so horny. Things would happen, and he ruined everything. Matthias was going to be so mad at him! It was a terrible shame, because the guy was super fun.

Before the nuclear fallout of Gilbert's spectacular fuck up, he could at least enjoy morning cuddles. Immensely lonely these last five years, it was a treasure to be held. If Matthias wasn't about to wake up and hate him forever, he would feel safe and cherished. Gently, Gilbert kissed the open palm of the arm holding him. He was so mushy lately.

A pleased hum was heard behind him as Matthias trapped him with a lanky leg. Through the pain of closed eyes and hangover, the sentiment was still received. “Mm good mornin'...”

“Good morning to you too,” Gil whispered.

“I feel like shit, you got drugs?” the other murmured, not letting go in the slightest. Gil could feel the other's everything pressed against him, so pleasingly naked. When the hell did he get to needy for any warm body within arm's reach? Was this reaction restricted only to Matthias?

The most important question of all was bold neon letters in Gilbert's brain. When did he become gay? He had never considered the same sex once prior to this. He wasn't opposed to such things in others. Lars was a walking advertisement for such behaviours, which didn't bother the uncle at all. Still, Gilbert had never looked at males in such sensual fashion. He had never wondered such endeavours. Now memories of holding Matthias close, gently fucking him beyond his peak... These realized fantasies waltzed in his brain like a royal gala.

“Bro. Drugs. Bathroom,” Matthias poked him, snapping the albino out of his drowning thoughts.

“Right. Drugs,” Gilbert mumbled, feeling lost as ever.

Matthias's house was pure chaos. The walls had craft paint on them, there was a planetary mobile hanging off the broken ceiling fan, and the carpet was six different colours. Having pulled on sweat pants that weren't his, Gilbert found the bathroom. It was neon orange. Why in flaming hell was the bathroom neon orange? It would make his eyes bleed if he wasn't already in the grips of a titanic hangover.

The mirror was the kind with a hidden compartment built in. It made sense that medicine should be inside, yet it was not. Instead it was filled with overly positive messages on post-it notes. “You are a great guy.” “Another day, another dollar!” “You can do anything you set your mind to!” There was a plethora of happy messages there, some layered three thick.

Where was the damn painkillers? Finally, they were spotted under the sink. They blended in with a mountain of workout supplements and cleaners. Taking his own pills dry, Gilbert sought out a glass for water. Few people took tablets dry, and he didn't expect others to do the same.

The kitchen was clean but confusing. There were several doors missing off the cabinets, and the fridge was also splattered in craft paint. It was like a small crafting war had taken place, and this house was the battlefield.

With water and pills in hand, Gilbert returned to his accidental lover. Matthias lay on his back, being a great big sponge of uselessness. He seemed to embrace nudity, not covering up his evenly tanned body. It was... well...

Gilbert didn't know what to say, stuck in the door frame. He couldn't look away from such athletic splendour, lean hills and valleys of fitness. Gilbert was so screwed now.

“Want to give me the water and drugs?” The sleepy man reminded him, reaching lazily while not moving.

“Right. Here they are,” They were handed over with mechanical jerky movements. Anxiety over the social damage that might exist was stressing Gilbert out. He has really hoped he could be great friends with this guy. They both loved their morning jogs, being awesome, games, drinking to classic punk and metal. Gilbert had never known there was another guy as awesome as him! Now he had ruined it with his horny decision making skills. It was his second year in south Africa all over again!

Matthias was rather perceptive once his drugs kicked in. “Bro, you look bummed out. Come on, relax.” The mattress was patted in friendly invitation. Gilbert shook his head, pacing slightly in the cluttered bedroom.

“I can't man, I fucked up,” Gilbert admitted, terrible at containing his thoughts.

“What? You don't make any sense.”

“I wanted us to be friends but I got drunk, and... my stupid awesome cock, it fucked everything up!” The albino stumbled through badly worded fears, not used to losing control.

The laugh that came next was as raucous to his ears as it was warm. If Gilbert didn't feel like such shit, it might even be musical. “Bro, we're still friends! I promised you that before we did the rainbow road level.”

“Oh my god that level is so fucking hard when you're drunk.”

“Right? Now come here. I'm cold.”

The anxiety finally broke, a chuckle of mirth from Gilbert. “You have two blankets.”

“I want _body heat_. Why are you being an asshole?”

“You're an asshole!” Gilbert's nerves vanished in the light of play. He crashed onto the mattress. Playfully tangling with each other, they soon resembled a lump under the blankets. Tickling, giggling, being general harmless morons.

A young teen's voice cut through this moment like a knife. “Dad, are you done having sex with strangers? I'm hungry.” This request came from _inside_ the room. Gilbert froze up, still under the blankets. He had never been the other person before. He locked up until a soothing hand ran down his spine. Matthias was a wizard with those things, knowing how to touch another in times of fear. It was like a spell.

The top of the blanket was peeled down a few inches. Half of Gilbert's blushing face peaked out, resting on Matthias's chest. He was met with cold eyed scrutiny, that bizarre twelve year old Emil standing before his very naked parent.

“Well You better get some cereal then.” Matthias dismissed pleasantly.

“Raisin Bran _sucks_. Lukas ate all my Lucky Charms.”

“Sounds like a you problem. You know I'm a lunch guy.”

The exchange was weird, grating against every parenting instinct Gilbert had. “You don't make your kids breakfast?” he asked, sitting up now. The kid seemed totally immune to nudity, not caring in the slightest.

“No. I can't cook for shit,” Matthias replied breezily, finally looking for clothes as Gilbert covered himself in a blanket toga.

“What the hell are you doing man? Breakfast is the most important meat of the day! It was my only meal some days when I was fighting in... in...” Gilbert froze up again, a bloom of violent memories coming up. “I... I...” he mumbled, lost. Drowning, the screams. The _deaths_.

Another soothing hug, pressed against Matthias's naked chest. “Just breathe and listen to my heart okay?” The taller male whispered, standing above a seated Gilbert at the edge of the bed. It took a moment, but it was very effective.

Emil raised a brow. “You guys are weird. I'm not eating raisin bran.”

Once more in reality, Gilbert pushed Matthias away and stood. In full blanket toga, he raised a pointed finger to the sky in proclamation. “It is not awesome to go without hot breakfast,” Matthias shrugged, uncaring, in response.

This was how Gilbert ended up in his lover's clothes, making waffles enough to feed a small army. The environment was not clean enough, efficient enough. This family lived in half dressed chaos and the regimented German was having none of it.

Waffles were almost done when the black garbed Lukas emerged from his basement lair. He eyed the family sitting at the paint speckled table, waiting with hands clasped. “Is this an intervention? What's going on?”

“Breakfast,” Emil answered casually. “Dad's whore is making it.”

Gilbert swivelled in an instant, glaring with all the intimidation an ex drill sergeant could muster. The youth shrivelled in his seat like dried fruit. Matthias clucked his tongue, actually doing parenting. The thing that was his job. “Remember what I said about the W word?”

“Sorry for discriminating against whatever sexuality and gender identity you are,” The kid sputtered out in rapid fire, seeming to realize what calibre of man he was dealing with.

“Apology accepted,” Gilbert grunted, humming as he went back to his waffle iron.

Lukas, still in spider themed pyjamas, sat with uncertainty. “This is weird.”

“I know, but I'm not eating that stupid raisin bran,” Emil agreed.

Waffles made, Gilbert served the entire heap with jam and butter off to a side. Matthias took in the sight with a bright smile. “This looks great, bro,” The compliment made Gilbert giddy inside, though it could be the fun of fresh breakfast.

Cautiously, the kids ate and relaxed. “This tastes different,” Lukas remarked, eating in earnest. Everyone ate, clearly needing the best meal of the day.

“Family recipe. It uses potato starch,” Gilbert explained between bites.

Matthias dropped his fork in surprise, agape. “You turned vegetables into breakfast?”

The albino paused, unsure if he had crossed some unseen boundary. “Yes?”

The tension broke, relaxing to comfort once more. “Bro, you are a legend! Can you do stuff to cauliflower?” Matthias praised, offering a sweet high five. Gilbert met it with immense enthusiasm.

“Of course! I can use brussel sprouts too!” Gilbert cheered.

The children groaned, looking away in horror. “We are so screwed.” Their days of sugar cereals and toaster strudel were coming to an end, if Gilbert was granted any authority by Matthias. Being healthy was _awesome_.


	15. Claude's Bad Day

The snow was light and graceful as Claude stared out the window. The lively city was sleepy in misty morning, a surreal snow globe. This blessed silence was savoured. Having started an intense veterinary course in college, Claude never had this peace.

Normally his life was a tornado of duties at home, and slogging through school work. He couldn’t recall so much as watching TV these last few weeks for leisure. Claude had turned nineteen this summer and he was hurdling into the stress of adulthood like a comet. How his adoptive father managed this lifestyle was a mystery.

Lounging in bed with a tragic romance novel, Claude really engaged this moment. Two crooning love songs and several pages later, fate bellowed. It was Mr. Beilschmidt, or Dad, yelling through the floor.

“Claude!”

The son in question groaned and stared at the ceiling. A rather striking poster of Tom Hiddleson looked back. Maybe if the voice was ignored hard enough, it would go away.

 **“CLAUDE!”** Well, that didn’t work.

 _ **“WHAT?”**_ he hollered back finally, unmoving.

“Kitchen!”

Groaning, he rolled off the mattress to his feet. Dragging himself downstairs, he idly scratched a silken PJ covered chest. It couldn’t be helped that Claude like to be surrounded by nice things. In the cozy kitchen, his father sat with an aging weiner dog on his lap. Blackie, the smallest of the family pack, looked immensely guilty.

“What happened?” Claude asked dryly.

“Blackie thought a phone charger was a mouse and ate half of it. I’m taking him to the vet. I need you to take Lars and his associate to their terrible play thing.” As the German talked, he stopped to coo at his silly creatures. All four dogs magnetized to him whenever he was present.

“It’s Saturday morning. Why is there practice this early? Why can’t Gil do it?” All of these protests were very logical. A single facial twitch gave everything away on his parent’s face.

“He’s busy.” The answer was too fast to be casual. It was rare to see Dad flustered.

“Oooh, he’s getting laid.” Claude teased, hiding a twinkle of eyes under his styled hair fringe. The family still didn’t know who uncle Gilbert’s secret lover was, but it was great entertainment at family dinners.

“That… That is not important. What I need is for you to watch Laurence. The play isn’t until later. Once you bring them back, you can do what you like.” This final instruction was sealed with a blue eyed look of confirmation. There was burning quality to it, a silent ring of approval. Again and again, Claude found himself hungry for such affirmations. He would babysit a hundred times for that fulfilling approval, surprising even himself.

“Yes.” Claude volunteered instantly.

“Good! I knew I could trust you.” The parent went on, setting the unfortunate dachshund on the floor. He gave a quick man hug, a simple pull in, then straightened his blazer. Dad essentially lived in suits.

Oh did that parental attention feel good, like perfect sun on a chilly day. Watching Dad leave, the nineteen year old marched upstairs. Laurence’s room was currently madness. The floor was covered in clothes, laid on as the boys coloured and giggled. They often chatted in their secret deaf people language. Silent alien messages in rushed exchange, fingers and hands in constant movement.

After all these years, Claude still wasn’t used to it. He wasn’t climatized to Matthew being here part time, living in Lars’s clothes, eating all the food. Admittedly the deaf preteen was an amazing chef. Despite the wriggling discomfort of Matthew always visiting, Claude never dared to say a word. That strange boy was the **_only_ ** salvation from German potato hell.

With two rapid knocks on the open door, the older brother spoke. “Lars, I’m in charge. Bug me if you break something.”

“Okay. Whatever.” Lars answered absently, clearly not listening. Good enough for Claude. He had hours to preen and dress in one of the bathrooms now. Looking great while fastidiously clean was an ideal he always tried to attain.

Dressed smart yet casual in expensive clothes, Claude practiced speaking in the mirror. This was not an act of vanity, but shyness. He had to talk to the professor at school, and Claude was useless at confrontation. Around certain types he stumbled words like a flustered drunk. The likeable and distinguished professor was one such person.

He was interrupted eventually by the dogs losing their minds downstairs. Claude didn’t even budge, hearing his sister’s voice through the floor. It was the typical high-pitched nonsense about school social events and girl stuff.

“Dad! Dad I’m back from the mall and I didn’t die!” She yelled through the house. Dad and Uncle Gilbert had a tendency to worry if anyone was late. Leanne was out forty minutes later than she texted once. Both parental figures almost put the house into martial law.

“HE’S GONE,” Claude yelled into the floor.

“WHERE DID HE GO?” Leanne replied, also too lazy to take the stairs.

“BLACKIE ATE A PHONE CHARGER, SO DAD TOOK HIM TO THE VET.”

In the middle of this conversation, the youngest of the siblings spoke up. “GO TALK TO EACH OTHER IN THE SAME ROOM, MORONS!” Lars shouted, ironically in his own room.  
  
With a picturesque hair flip and a sigh, Claude went down stairs. His little sister was growing up fast, already fifteen. The colours and stereotypes she once reviled as a child now consumed her. She couldn’t hold money longer than a few days. It was typically wasted on fancy lunches, clothing, and phone games.

Claude couldn’t be more different. He and Lars hoarded their monthly allowance, buying new items sparingly. Leanne’s latest frivolous purchase was obvious, a phone case that looked like a chocolate bar. “More shiny stuff?” he complained, allowed to bug his sister by divine right.

“Yes. It’s cute and I love it.” She replied, ready to verbally battle.

“You know what’s better? Having a future with money in it.” Claude countered, taking a twenty dollar bill out of his pocket. When Leanne tried to make a grab for it, he pulled back and shoved it back in it’s wallet home.

_“Gimme!”_

_**“No, you spent all yours!”** _

_“Stop pulling on my shirt!”_

The two siblings fought like seagulls over a pack of fries. This was a normal thing to happen, only interrupted by life upstairs. Laurence and Matthew plowed through them, smiling and dashing to the door.

“Where are you going?” Clause demanded, his duel with Leanne suspended. Starting to read lips, Matthew help up a premade note. It read ‘the pool’, a picture of stick people splashing around in badly drawn water.

“You guys can’t go to the pool. You have to go to that dumb play thing.” Claude ordered, looking to his brother to translate.

“The play sucks,” Lars replied flatly. Matthew pointed to his symbiotic companion, nodding in agreement. If you separated them, they might actually die like a cut up worm.

“I know it sucks, but you have to go. Practice starts in an hour.”

At this, Leanne spoke out loud. “Oh, it sure does suck Matthew has to leave. He could have stayed over for Dad’s favourite potato dish.”

Laurence had the observational skills of a wet rock. He didn’t even notice his sister winking at Claude from across the hall. “What?”

It was a game honed to perfection, the reason Matthew was so popular yet strange. Almost everyone felt uncomfortable with a person they couldn’t talk to. The thing was, Matthew was an amazing chef. You threw him in the kitchen and he magically emerged with baked treats an hour later. All the children were jealous of what Laurence had in reach, an escape from potatoes.

Ludwig and Gilbert were mediocre cooks outside of potatoes. Years of overexposure to the hated root vegetables had scarred them all in ways unseen. Claude couldn’t even look at mashed potatoes anymore without shuddering.

Matthew was signing away to Lars, enthusiastic. Lars nodded and looked back to his sister. “Mattie’s gonna make something. If you guys aren’t jerks, I might share some.” With that, the future married couple strolled into the kitchen holding hands.

After a moment, Laurence was gone and clearly distracted. Barely audible, Leanne muttered “They are _so_ gay together.”

Claude nodded, that icky feeling unpleasant in his guts again. It was rare, but hard to define and terrible. “At least we won’t die of potato poisoning one more night.” The advent of Matthew’s French cooking was enough to captivate the entire house. The dogs lay in wait in the hall. Leanne looked up from her phone game sometimes, sniffing the air. Even Claude hovered nearby, pretending to read.

After thirty minutes, the scent of cooking apple and cinnamon came to a peak. Whatever Matthew was up to, it was clearly done. Everyone looked in the kitchen, eyeing Laurence. He was chowing down on brown little things that smelled heavenly.

Leanne pushed past everyone, dogs in tow. Matthew smiled and put a second plate of the unknown food on the table. This was all the invitation required, triggering a feeding frenzy. It was fried apple dumplings, apparently. Claude didn’t know you could have dumplings for dessert, and it was delicious.

Unfortunately, sitting around at the school auditorium was not sweet or delicious. It was dry and pointless, making Claude question himself. Why did he have to be here? He had a mountain of school work to do, dishes to wash, dogs to bathe. This play was going to be terrible anyway.

“Why don’t you look depressed.” A female voice greeted him. It was likely the young guardian of a child in attendance. Not terribly interested, Clause wanted to tell this curious creature to go away. That would be rude, so he could at least pretend otherwise.

“Not sad, just thinking.” Claude lied, adding in a charismatic flip of his hair fringe.

“Don’t worry Mr. Smooth. This whole thing sucks.” the other assured. Her voice was probably desirable to… something. Claude was not the creature she was keen to seduce. The lady was conventionally pretty with flaming red hair. It was obvious now, she was the sister of one of the ginger kids on stage.

“I know right? A Christmas Carol is so last century.” Clause commented, attempting to be cool.

“Definitely. So, who are you cheering on?” Wow this chick wanted to talk to him. She was sitting next to him now, eyeliner embossed lashes fluttering.

“That little bastard right there,” Claude pointed at Lars. The fiery sibling was currently reading the lines of Marley badly. Guessing from the director’s exasperation, Marley was not supposed to lecture Scrooge on committing tax fraud. Alfred, playing Scrooge, argued back that money from England wasn’t real until 1905. It was all a glorious disaster capped off by Matthew. The deaf kid was having a blast painting set pieces with others. Claude wasn’t sure how many hot purple sunflowers existed back in the 1800’s. That was what seemed to be painted on now.

“Oh that little gay kid.”

The comment was abrupt and sharp like a barb. Claude didn’t like this lady’s tone, her face, her stupid two tone sweater. His very skin crawled around this stranger. “Yeah. Him.” Claude muttered darkly, acid in his tone.

The biting voice bypassed this lady’s perception completely. “The kids are safe on stage. You wanna help me pass the time, cutie?” A sure hand edged close on the arm rest between then, her brown eyes locked on like homing missiles.

Instinct kicked to life, making Claude malfunction fantastically. He made an odd cough of a noise, flattening away from her like she was a viper. “Sorry can’t, gotta go.” He fled for the bathroom, faster than a bullet. It took a few minutes of breathing to calm himself. One thing was certain in all this bizarre hormonal failure. 

Something was _not_ right in Claude’s brain.


	16. Dragged Into The Light

Play practice ended early, mostly because someone puked on stage. No names were mentioned, but there was only so many kids dumb enough to do this. Ivan didn’t dare admit who, for this was a blessing. The play was likely going to be a mess, and there were certain problems.

For one thing, Ivan’s costume was not fitting great. Now thirteen years old, Ivan was still growing. He was always tall for his age, but now he was bulking outwards nicely. Alfred had been the first to get Ivan started on American football. Mama was overjoyed Ivan was engaged in normal activities. _Normal_. Who even defined that?

Not long after the football sign-up, Mama resumed her efforts to ‘help’ her only child. The pony print wallpaper of his room was stripped away last year. All his stuffed animals were incinerated, along with his scrapbook supplies. His many lovely scarves were now under new ownership, hanging in Mama’s closet.

Ivan hated football. He only did it to directly compete with Alfred. The teen loved plays more, savoured them like chocolate. The pageantry, the flash and sparkle, it was amazing to see. Short of ‘The King And I’, ‘Heathers’, or ‘The Great Gatsby’, there was no point to being in one. Not enough tension, whimsy, or colour was present.

Put simply, ‘A Christmas Carol’ was going to be a dud. Angelique, the director, was already pissed at Ivan for sewing sequins onto his costume. He was supposed to be the Ghost of Christmas Present, but struggled to remember lines. It was hard to recite old garbage when you were wearing cheap garbage.

Slamming the front door in frustration, Ivan locked it. Most of the rental house was beautiful these days, even tones and gleaming white crown molding. Mama got out of a rent hike recently, helping update the property. It was well known the landlord was planning to sell soon, and Mama did not want to move.

Gone was the old cherry wood cabinet doors. The campy wallpaper in every room was replaced with reasonable shades of blue paint. Ivan hated all of it. He despised that the ancient shag carpet was gone, and he wanted his purple pony walls back.

Ivan was hungry but he didn’t want to eat, not like this. He hated this stupid grey shirt. Taking it off, he flung it across the room. It landed, splayed over the couch. It resembled an ugly deflated balloon, like it deserved to.

Feeling incrementally better, Ivan searched for a new shirt. It was the start of winter, and the house could get chilly while shirtless. Entering his once loved bedroom, Ivan glared at grey walls before digging through his dresser.

Beige shirts, black sweaters, white and navy striped tank tops… Nothing was good enough! There was no colour, joy, or fancy! A spark of anger burned in Ivan’s gut. It had been there a while, born of resentment since last year. It was impossible to suppress now, starting rare arguments between mother and son.

Immensely strong from ten months of physical training, he picked up the dresser and threw it in broiling frustration. The cheap IKEA flat pack crumpled into pieces, but Ivan didn’t care. With so many ‘inappropriate’ objects burned out back, the room was barren of personal effects.

Mama didn’t hear the crashing of furniture. She wasn’t home, _again_ . She was working late, _again_. After days of living here mute, words tumbled out of Ivan into static emptiness.

“No Mama, I don’t want to continue playing stupid sports! I’m going to do more plays, even if I can’t remember my lines!” he announced harshly.

The room said nothing back.

“That’s right! I will! And you can’t tell me what to wear! If you’re going to take my stuff, I’ll take your stuff! See how you feel about it!” Ivan shouted, fist bared to the sky.

More silence lay within the house, unresponsive.

Bolstered by anger, Ivan stomped over to his mother’s room. It was a short distance across the hall, but he couldn’t lay a hand on the door knob. She had forbidden him from entering the holy space years ago. Mama wasn’t here. She never listened to him anymore anyway. Why should he listen to her?

He turned and pushed the knob, half expecting an axe trap to swing down. No such thing happened. It was just shirtless Ivan before an unlit room, his frightened breathing echoing in the hall. He calmed and walked inside. His anger dissolved at the bounty of very pretty things before him.

Like the rest of the house, the room was acceptably clean. A massive closet was wide open, the doors themselves slung with various dresses and finery. It was a feast for the eyes, all the colours present. Lacking control today, Ivan hugged an arm full of dresses and inhaled. Traces of Mama’s signature perfume laced the silky textures. Happiness came forth, a gentle smile on his face.

Okay, enough of that. Ivan had to leave now, clean up his dresser, and Mama would never know. No evidence, no problem! Two plastic bags caught his attention as he retreated. They were stuffed full of goodies. That was right, Mama had said she was dumping a bunch of stuff off at the donation bin. Ivan smirked. He was just being a good son and taking this out for her.

Snatching both bags, he left the room as he found it. With no one due to be home for hours, it was safe to goof off. He emptied both small plastic bags onto the couch. He was greatly discouraged to see his scarf collection in one. She was going to give them away without telling him anything! How rude! Putting on his old purple feather boa, Ivan dug through the other bag.

A long dress lay inside, faded from use. He recalled Mama wearing it to many school events. It looked slightly abused. The floral pattern was backed with pale pink, pleasant on the eyes. A daring idea struck Ivan, impulsive and silly. He scrambled to pull the thing on, stretching parts of it out.

“Oh my, I can’t allow my son to wear fun colours!” He portrayed his mother in mocking tone, deepening voice hitched high. He headed to the bathroom, where the only full length mirror resided. “He can’t have any fun at all because he has to be normal!” he ranted to the night. Looking in the mirror, he froze like a deer in headlights.

The dress clung to his upper body, flaring out into a billowing skirt. It swayed with his jerky movements. There were feelings in his body that crystallized, once an undefined fog. He wasn’t losing his mind, he wasn’t going crazy. A single solid thought took hold.

He looked pretty, and he was supposed to wear this. A single tear of recognition, of relief, leaked from an eye. “Hey, hey you. Looking nice over there.” he whispered, inching closer. Ivan delicately touched the glass. “Who are you, looking so nice?” He touched the mirror but it didn’t feel real. Possessed, he ran back to his mother’s room. The vision had to be completed.

An hour later Ivan was sprawled on the couch with apple juice in a wine glass. He wasn’t sure if he was losing his mind, but he didn’t care. The ash blonde felt so alive! Having borrowed some eyeliner and fake pearls, Ivan lounged in Mama’s rarely used high heels. It had taken twenty minutes to figure out how to walk in the bastards, but he looked amazing.

Ivan watched the shopping channel, swirling his apple juice in a most pretentious manner. “That necklace looks so tacky, I couldn’t bear to wear it!” he spoke to the TV. Feeling happy as he was ridiculous, he tousled his shaggy hair. He almost needed more hair so he could style it.

“Next up, Dr Ho can help you live a better life!” The TV went on.

“No, you’re the ho, Dr Ho. I’m just fabulous with my Merlot.” Ivan ranted on, sipping his apple juice like the highest of upper crust nobles.

The front door knocker banged three times. Ivan jumped in his skin, almost dropping the slender wine glass. The door knocked again, louder than Ivan’s thundering heart. “Yo! Ivy! Let me in!” It was Alfred. Why the hell was Alfred here?

“No!” Ivan croaked, his voice still breaking from puberty sometimes. Being thirteen was not the idyllic paradise TV liked to portray.

“Dude, you left your textbooks backstage. Let me in.”

 _ **“NO! Go away!”**_ Ivan was going to be the joke of the school now, doomed to social torture.

“Were you the idiot that puked on the stage? Oh my god, that’s so insane!” The taunting of Alfred was effective, like always. The honey blonde never failed to rile Ivan into stupid decisions.

Anger bypassed panic. Ivan charged to the door, opening it wide. “You know _damn well_ I have better intestinal fortitude than you! You threw up four times when we went to the fair!”

“It’s not my fault I won both eating competitions! You took tiny girl bites and…” Alfred froze up, eyes wide as he stared at Ivan silently.

“Alfred, it’s not… I’m not…” Ivan stuttered, failing to speak intelligently. He tried slamming the door, but Alfred was swift. He ran inside first, grabbing Ivan by the wrist. Ivan halted a punch to the other teen’s face, recalling the ‘No touching the hair’ rule the boys founded years ago.

 **“Let go! I’ll kick your ass!”** Ivan threatened, running purely off fear.

Alfred was still silent, letting go and slowly closing the door. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, but failed to say anything that formed words. Finally, he shuffled close and neared a hand to Ivan’s face. The taller male staid stock still, scared of rejection.

Gently a thumb nail dragged along Ivan’s lower lip. The touch lingered, warm. “Your lipstick was smeared. Um, here.” Alfred spoke quietly as if brain damaged. He never lowered to this volume before. Placing the textbooks in Ivan’s arms, he backed away. “I have to go.” He was gone in a flash, more swift than Ivan.

Even if Ivan wasn’t stuck in a dress, he couldn’t pedal fast enough to catch up. He could only watch in dismay as Alfred biked away with haste. Hopefully Ivan would still have an intact social life on Monday.

Francis and Arthur were cuddled up on the couch, finally enjoying private time. This had been an almost impossible feat engineered by Francis over two weeks. After laying plans just so for ages, Arthur was finally his, alone, with no family disasters to cut it short. The dog was at a cousin’s house, Matthew was with Lars, and Alfred claimed he was sleeping over at Ivan’s.

“Mon cher, it’s just you and me. What do you say to a little fun?” The practiced seducer whispered in Arthur’s ear. All over his husband since returning home from work, Francis wanting very loving attention _now_. People didn’t understand how rare sex was for two working parents. It was a precious gift, and the French-Canadian actor craved it like a drug.

 _“Oh I don’t know, love,”_ Arthur murmured, looking flush and relaxed after three glasses of wine. “What if…”

“What if you had fun, _upstairs_ , and I wore that lingerie you love so much.” Francis went on, an absolute sex demon some days. Little did Arthur know, the alluring lace was already donned beneath a fluffy robe.

Arthur blushed deeply, kissing Francis. The stubborn English gremlin was finally caving after Francis spent an hour flirting with him relentlessly. Francis always got what he needed. “I think… we could have a _lot_ of fun. Right now.” Arthur purred, green eyes dark with attraction.

This crazy plan finally seemed to pay off for Francis. He was going to get gloriously, happily laid! Halfway up the stairs, the front door unlocked. A shell shocked Alfred wandered in, pale and shivering from the weather. Francis rolled his eyes. The adorable idiot should have known biking at the cusp of winter would freeze his berries off.

Arthur, forever in parenting mode, dropped everything to tend to his son. “Are you okay? Are you cold?” he cooed.

 _“Merde,”_ Francis muttered venomously, knowing nothing would happen now. Swallowing more sexual frustration then ego, the charming parent forced himself to wear a smile. “What’s the matter Alfred?” After clinging to his parents most of the night, the broken teen only muttered a few lines about dresses. Nonsense about lipstick. Alfred as a whole was very unclear.

Children were such strange creatures.


	17. Do Kiss, Don't Tell

Confusion. Uncertainty. Drag Queens. These were all things Alfred avoided solidly like a disease. It was four days since he saw his best friend, occasionally worst opponent, wearing a dress. Ivan was dodged at all opportunities since. Alfred didn’t understand the topics involving what he had seen. He didn’t really want to understand it.

Day five was the day he ran out of luck. Leaving football practice, He was always the last to vacate the change room. His hair had to always look perfect, and that was Alfred endorsed law! “I’ll meet up later guys!” He yelled out to the usual meatheads, still preening. It was just him and his small army of styling products now. That one hair never behaved, stuck up near his temple.

A moment later, he wasn’t alone. The old doors squealed as they opened.

“Hello?” Alfred called out. “If you’re a ninja, I know _ultra_ ninja skills. I can take you!”

Ivan, much more real than any ninja, entered the room silently. Alfred scrambled to throw hair pomade in his bag and sprint, but there wasn’t enough time. Ivan had jumped him good and fast.

Pinning Alfred to the wall, Ivan bore down on him with a vicious glare. “You’ve been avoiding me.” Ivan growled threateningly.

“No way man. I’ve been busy with homework. You know…” Alfred trailed off weakly, unable to look Ivan in the face.

“ **STOP LYING!** ” The larger teen roared, seeing through Alfred’s acts clearly.

“Stop kidnapping me against walls!”

“Stop being a brat!”

They devolved to childish slap fighting in minutes, rolling around on the tile floor for dominance. Ivan excelled at this due to pure weight class, on top and about to beat Alfred into pulp. Alfred braced for impact, but none came. Instead, a warm tear drop hit his upper arms.

“Whoa. Man, you’re crying.”

“Oh, look at the detective!” Ivan snarled, using his shirt to dab his eyes dry. “I give up! I thought you were my friend, but you’re just stupid!” He stood to leave, freeing a battle ready Alfred. It earned him a fierce slap in the face as Alfred sprang to his feet.

 **_“I AM NOT STUPID!”_ ** The egotistical golden blonde bellowed, now truly pissed.

“You must be, because I need your help right now and you’re acting like a stupid kid!”

This last line made Alfred pause, then clench his fists in anger. “Why don’t you go away! I don’t understand what I saw! I’m having trouble like… thinking about it! How the hell do you expect me to deal with you in a damn dress? It was weird and I don’t get it! I don’t want to think about it right now!”

Ivan was so upset he was legitimately crying. Russians were spies that were allergic to tears, so this was truly humbling. “I don’t even… I don’t know how to deal with it either.” The taller male confessed, voice breaking. “I don’t… I don’t understand how… I don’t…” Lost for words, Ivan sat on a bench and hid his reddening face.

Alfred’s bravado of before faded sharply at the sight. Ivan really was in the dark on… whatever was going on with him. “But you have to know what you’re doing. You’re the one doing it!”

“I don’t know what to do Fedya, _that’s the whole point!_ I wanted to talk but you wouldn’t answer your phone!” Ivan accused, face officially looking like crap from emotions.

“I thought you… you were trying to…” Alfred didn’t know what to continue with.

Unfortunately, Ivan knew him very well. “What!? Turn you gay? Put you in a dress? **_You’re such a moron!_ **”

 _“_ **_SHUT UP BRAGINSKY!_ ** _”_

At this, Ivan’s expression turned deathly cold. “I thought I could trust you! We’re done!” He then turned and left in a huff. Alfred stood in shock, then chased desperately after the other. Being separated from the rugged sports opponent was **not** an option.

“Ivy! Come on! I didn’t mean it! Give me a break! I’m eleven! How am I supposed to do this feelingsy crap!?” He appealed, now attempting to halt Ivan’s determined gait. Mostly, he was being dragged out of the gym.

“I don’t know, but you really suck at it! For someone so talented, you say such dumb words!” Ivan finally stopped, looking back with spite as he spat out these words.

Alfred spoke with passion, releasing his death grip on Ivan’s arm. “Why do you never give yourself credit!? I swear you want to fail! You could be in the IFL someday and you pick daisies on the sidelines!” This was a topic that irritated Alfred to no end, with a dozen tangent for rants already looming in his head.

“Maybe I don’t _like_ sports!” This deathly line was uttered casting both of them into sheer silence. It was impossible, ridiculous even. Ivan loved sports. Why else would he play all of them?

“Why…” Alfred broke the silence finally, still shocked. “Why did you join every sports team if you hate it?”

Ivan looked ready to crumple in defeat to his feelings, never before seen. “B-because Mama told me to, and you were in them, and… and I wanted to hang out with you because you were so cool… I’m… I’m an idiot too.” At this, Ivan shuffled closer, blushing faintly.

“You aren’t allowed to talk about yourself like that! You’re fast, and strong! You could totally punch a dude in half!” Alfred was yelling now, but only they remained in the hall.

“Fedya, I don’t think —” Ivan was cut off as Alfred’s passionate temper flared bright.

“You’re good at math stuff! You know two languages! You could _definitely_ punch like, two guys in half! No, in _quarters_!”

Ivan bit his lip as Alfred ranted like a madman, then made a strange sort of noise. It was a sigh, followed by a purring ‘ _Fedya_ ’. What happened next caught both by surprise. Ivan pulled them both into a kiss.

It wasn’t a placid grandma cheek kiss. It was an honest to god adult affair, putting Alfred on a twirling roller coaster ride of things he didn’t know. Burning for oxygen, his eyes opened wide as he scrambled to seperate. Heart thumping, he looked over at Ivan in terror. They were both bewildered and lost for words.

“What, what was…” Alfred sputtered numbly.

“I don’t… I don’t know.” Ivan confessed fearfully, still rosy as he felt his lips. They met eyes in final understanding, even if they had no idea what it was.

“We can’t talk about this.” Alfred ordered bluntly.

Ivan nodded mutely, having a hell of a time breathing a few metres away. “The dress thing…” he gasped.

“I’m… I’m f-fine with it.” Alfred stammered. “I have to go home now.” He started up his phone with stilted fingers, trembling a little.

“Da, home. Good.” Ivan agreed, unable to speak more intelligently. He also readied to flee.

Three weeks passed without so much as a peep. Nothing changed or altered. Alfred was true to his word. He helped Ivan hide his cross dressing supplies. They learned how to use make-up without resembling clowns. Ivan figured out how to walk in heels without killing himself. All of this was in the secret sanctuary of Alfred’s room when both fathers were away from the home.

The price of course, was never discussing that bizarre kiss. It would be sportsmanship suicide. Alfred would never forget the taste of cherry lip balm in his life.

The rest of his life wasn’t very long apparently. Alfred only made it a month and a half since first seeing Ivan in a dress. It was almost Christmas, and he was crawling with the need to say anything. Burgeoning secrets were so hard to hide for an excited Alfred.

Dad wouldn’t get it. Papa would post it on twitter. That left Matthew as a fountain of useful advice. Matthew was great friends with Lars, practically an authority on being best buds. Throwing aside the homework he was doodling on, Alfred headed upstairs.

Not surprisingly, Lars was over. The two friends were currently cheating to complete parts of each other’s homework. Alfred bit his lip, still not sure how to breach the subject. Adult kissing your best friend and scariest sports opponent was new territory.

Stomping to get Matthew’s attention like usual, the deaf brother felt the vibration through the floor. He looked up, then waved.

‘Mattie, You’re kinda smart n stuff.’ Alfred signed timidly.

“He’s the smartest,” Lars spoke up verbally, rather proud of his words. Matthew didn’t hear the praise, but he didn’t need to. He was busy fusing into Lars’s side via cuddling. Boy, they really had this friendship business down good.

‘What’s the problem?’ Matthew gestured curiously, quite perceptive.

He might as well get out with it. Alfred was dying to tell someone. ‘Do friends kiss?’

The two boys on the floor blinked and cocked their heads. Lars shrugged and continued to fill in Matthew’s homework with likely incorrect answers. Alfred’s brother was a lot more helpful.

‘Yeah. Friends kiss. See?’ Matthew kissed Lars profusely on the face, making the boy go funny faced and drop his pencil. It was hardly unusual for the boys to be so affectionate.

‘Oh good. And hugging too?’ Alfred sighed with relief.

‘Yes. You can pretty much do anything you want.’ Matthew explained, as Lars slowly recovered all two of his functioning brain cells. He was far more preoccupied with gazing at Matthew now, instead of conversing with Alfred.

‘Thanks guys. I was worried for a minute.’

It was five in the morning when Ivan was woken up by a phone call. Who the hell was so ignorant and stupid enough to call other people at five in the morning? Grumbling russian curses, Ivan cracked open one eye as he groped around in the darkness. He read the incoming call screen.

Oh. It was Alfred. That was fine. Accepting the call, Ivan resumed being still. “Fedya. It’s five in the morning,” he greeted dryly, voice clipping slightly from hormonal cracking.

“I talked to someone,” the other voice replied eagerly.

“You talk to everyone.”

“About the kiss, dummy!” This made Ivan bundle under the blankets in fear.

“Not so loud, Mama might hear you!” He whispered harshly, peeking at the bedroom door after. It was still closed.

“It’s not like she can magically hear you through walls.”

The thought was a possible one, making Ivan swallow nervously. “Maybe she can…”

Alfred went on loudly, as always. “Well apparently you can do anything with friends. It’s all practice until you mean it anyway.”

Ivan was sure his ears were red from the news. “Fedya, we _kissed_. Like grown ups do.”

“Yeah, but it was practice. Don’t you want to be good at kissing your soulmate when you meet them? If we practice with each other now, we’ll be awesome at it later!”

Ivan didn’t know what to say, his uncertain heart beating away in strange excitement. Alfred had so much force of will and charisma. It was difficult to tell him when his ideas were downright insane. It didn’t help that Ivan craved another kiss, needed it like Mama needed her cigarettes.

“Okay.” he responded thoughtlessly. “We should practice some more after school.”

“Sure! I have to pretend to sleep now, so good night!” Alfred hung up, leaving Ivan alone with his imagination. Training after games had taken a very fascinating turn.


	18. Concerto Duet

Vash sat at the table patiently as the war waged before him. Before him was two equals and business associates. He had been paid handsomely to mediate the division of possessions from a long weary marriage. Both acquaintances were tearing each other apart verbally.

Erszébet was on one side. She was called a rainbow of alternate names. Erza, Elizabeth, Liz and several others had been applied to her and stuck. She was fiery determination and bountiful brown hair. She had been a fitness instructor, a teacher, and a pillar of the community.

On the other side was Roderich. He was a musical genius, an after school teacher, a skilled poet, and Vash’s former crush. He was easily losing in battle, belittled and pale in the face of Erza’s burning anger. They were slinging anger and rage as projectiles in the messiest of battles.

 _Divorce_.

“Well, I wouldn’t have to pay for all those vacations if you fucked me like a man!” This was usual fare coming from a gravely unhappy wife. Roderich being sterile and poor by wealthy standards was the final push to sever a rocky relationship.

Roderich reeled from this, injured worse than any dagger could carve. “Well… Maybe if _**you**_ were worth fucking!”

“What! What do you even about… You are a coward! You couldn’t stand up to my father! You can’t stand up to me! Keep the fucking car! You can live out of it while I get the house!”

“We bought that house together!” Roderich whined.

“We bought that house with _my family money_! Did your stupid music music lessons pay for my hair extensions? No?” Erszébet was absolutely crushing her soon to be ex-husband to dust, as per usual. Their marriage had been set up badly from the start, a match made from old money and third party opinion.

“It was a side hobby at most! I told you that from the start!”

As they argued more, Vash took notes of what little they agreed on. So far, the house, all the furniture, the car, and the cats had been assigned. Of course, Vash wasn’t a real lawyer. He had been studying family law during his mandatory five years in the Swiss military. Mostly he was a well informed friend of both sides.

Neither of Vash’s associates wanted it let out they were considering divorce until the end. Shame, existing family dramas, and vanity pushed them into Vash’s beautiful parlour. It was merely one room of Vash’s masterfully restored mansion. The dull blonde didn’t really have a lot of money. He had bought a crumbling property when he finally left the Swiss army and began renovations.

That was over nine years ago. Despite a mediocre income, the shrewd school principal had fully restored the domestic palace to its original era… with modern luxuries. He had been raising Elise as his own child for eleven years, despite not being her true father. Truthfully he was only the girl’s uncle. It was a well contained secret no would ever discover, if he had his way with things.

Elise didn’t need to know about her mother, and the many bad decisions that lead to her demise.

Loud arguing pulled Vash back to the present. He had zoned out on on the mostly completed list again. Clearing his throat, Vash stood in very stiff official posture. “I do believe we’ve compiled the list.”

The couple paused, giving confused blinks. While the wife was red faced with frustration, the husband looked truly sad and defeated. “What list would that be?” Roderich asked softly, a miserable snarl ruining his pale features.

Vash was constantly distracted by the beauty mark on the man’s face. It belonged there, although the urge to steal it was strong. “Well…” Vash took a deep breath, hesitant and barely grounded. Few could see this through his indomitable defenses of cold neutrality. Elise could, but she was immune to all salty frowns.

“It was agreed upon by both parties that Erszébet gets the house, the cats, and the porsche. Roderich will get the lexus, art from the house equal to the house’s value, and his historical instrument collection. The cottage is to be sold and the profits split equally.”

Both partners looked at each other with vicious hatred, then relaxed enough to sit and snack on tiny sandwiches. “That seems proper.” Roderich sighed, dramatically lighting a fancy cigarette and inhaling.

“Who even talks like that — No, you know what? I’m done. I’m done with you, Roddie. The list is fine. Please forward it to my lawyer, Mr. Zwingli. I’m sure Mr. Kirkland will appreciate you parsing up our affairs. Thank you for the sandwiches. They were delicious.” Erszébet informed the room, looking exhausted from this brunch meeting.

“You can’t leave early every time!” Roderich objected, straightening out his own smart blazer as he left his seat.

“I have a tennis match with Michelle I have no intention of cancelling!” She roared right back, making Roderich flinch. With that, the mighty woman left. Roderich looked wounded and breathless, listening to her Porsche rip out of the driveway. All his pride and vanity deflated the second she was gone. He snubbed out his cigarette in a fancy crystal ashtray… and began to sob like a grieving widow.

Vash froze up at the sight, unsure what to do. He was horrible with words… and feelings… and solving personal issues. Tea. He could make tea. People liked tea.

Tea was soon served in fine porcelain cups. Vash perhaps memorized how many sugars his guest preferred. The couple had been over to privately argue well over thirty times now. With any other guest, the sugar and cream would be left for them. Roderich was noted to be vain as the day was bright. He truly enjoyed being served by others.

The tea was placed before him on a red saucer. “Crying doesn’t suit you Mr. Edelstein.” Vash finally spoke, giving the man a monogrammed handkerchief.

“It is never in fashion. Please, call me Roderich. After everything we… I put you through, you are allowed to be casual with me.” Roderich removed his glasses to delicately dab his reddening eyes dry. The motion was performed as if he were delicate porcelain himself. Perhaps he never had enough force of will to handle his wife.

“Of course… Roderich.” Vash replied smoothly, despite wiggling insides. “The tea is prepared.”

The subtle flattery was very effective. True sadness lifted to a flat line of a smile. It was a vast improvement, mirroring Vash’s face. For people as salty and detached as them, this was like bursting into unified song.

“You make a perfect cup as always.” The remark was sparing to others. Vash took it to heart. They sat in comfortable silence, while Vash’s brain choked and sputtered to process the nothing. He wasn’t supposed to get this close to people, as a wannabe lawyer or a legitimate principal.

Roderich finally stood, preparing to leave. “The refreshments were good as always.”

“Cumberbundt!” Vash blurted out in panic, voice gravelly.

The handsome brunette cocked a brow and adjusted his glasses. “Excuse me?”

“You seemed to be a fashionable man. I was hoping I could get your opinion on cumberbundts.” Vash babbled slightly, his brain puking out any reason for Roderich to stay. He didn’t need help picking out a cumberbundt for his suit. He was planning on wearing the red one to Elise’s horrible play tonight.

“You flatter me, Vash. I would be honoured to offer style advice to you.” 

 _Holy shit my crush from twenty years ago complimented me. Holy shit I need to be cool._ It was a blessing Vash’s racing thoughts were silent.

They toured the mansion as they went up stairs. Restored mahogany and cherry wood gleamed under stained glass lamps. Eyeing the tassels of a repaired tapestry, Roderich was openly impressed. “Did you inherit this property? It’s lovely.”

“No. I bought it and restored it over the years. I hand painted the last of the crown molding and installed it in July. I still have to replace a spare toilet… but work never ends.” God, why was Vash talking so much? He needed to shut his face hole, but he kept saying things!

“Marvelous! Is this a Henry Fuseli?” Roderich examined one of the more lewd framed posters.

“It is. I’m very proud of being from Zurich. It’s just a print. If I had the real thing, well…”

“That would be fabulous wealth indeed. I still think you did a better job restoring this place, more so than old money would have.” Even Roderich was baffled by the words that fell out of his face. They looked at each other for a moment in genuine shock at all these compliments. It seemed they were both having trouble containing words.

“I… I seem to be… ill,” Roderich mumbled, clutching the handkerchief as he blushed faintly. Chatter of art and cumberbundts died away, and Vash was struggling to speak at all. He didn’t know what this was, but it was tangible and too close to chop off.

Oh god, let Vash not regret this. He couldn’t help but sweat from bubbling over anxiety. “Would you be interested in a truly terrible play?”

“Pardon?” Roderich muttered, just as rattled.

“My daughter’s in a terrible play. Her first big role. I was given two front row seats of my choice as a principal… but I’m lacking in guests.” _… and lacking friends… and attention. I want to steal your beauty mark forever. I sound so crazy and desperate. I sound like a monster. Please don’t reject me._

A dozen burning thoughts cycled through, cutting like tiny blades. It was true Vash put Elise, the house, and his job before himself. He hadn’t had sex since… just a few years too long. Wanting to keep a guest over because he was pretty seemed silly and cruel.

“A play sounds great,” Roderich gasped weakly, looking ready to flee or pass out.

“I’ll pick you up in four hours then,” Vash volunteered without thought, tense yet eager.

They both hoped this wasn’t a selfish mistake, having made so many before.


	19. Playing Around

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Merry Christmas Y'all

There had been recitals, practices, and set building sessions. Sewing machines, glue, and tears had been involved. Now was the night of debut. The director, Angelique, was pacing in tense thought between barked orders. Kids moved to and fro in preparation, most of them crystal clear on their functions.

The stars of the show were lined up to one side, all looking sparklier than intended. Ivan and his sequin pack had made the rounds whenever the director was distracted. Alfred was Scrooge, Lars was Marley, and Ivan was a smug looking ghost of Christmas Present.

Technically Matthew was the ghost of Christmas Future, but his grim black outfit was currently tangled on a cardboard set piece. The ghost of Christmas Past, Elise, was attempting to free him without ripping anything. Seeing as they were both distractible cinnamon rolls of sugary joy, this resulted in rolling around on the floor and giggling.

“Now children, this is the night. We have to… _Bonnefoy, Zwingli,_ stop goofing around!” The frazzled blonde director order mid sentence.

“I do believe they are deaf, madam,” Alfred drawled in a thick southern accent.

“You cannot be a cowboy business manager!” The director fumed, arguing about this at least once per practice.

“Scrooge could have side hobbies,” Ivan pointed out.

Lars looked at both his co-stars flatly, clearly unimpressed. He was still upset he wasn’t allowed to argue about the dangers of tax fraud.

“Like being haunted. Just like…” Alfred started excitedly. The new Japanese kid, Kiku, joined in to finish the sentence in shared unison. “... Fatal Frame 2!” They were fast friends already, both irritatingly into baseball and horror games.

“That game was so good!” Alfred praised, forgetting to sound like Scrooge or a cowboy.

Through the curtain, parents were heard filing in and chatting in their seats. The director sucked in a deep breath and physically separated two of her hapless stars from the scenery. Matthew was no longer tangled on a cardboard bush, and standing beside the other ghosts of Christmas. He gave a crooked thumbs up, his grim reaper hood falling over his racoon painted eyes.

Director Angelique cursed under her breath in French, and knelt in her white dress. She signalled to the chorus kids, who prepared to march out first for the act introduction. The lights dimmed, some corners so dark you couldn't see a hand in front of your your own face. In the divinely shrouding darkness, Alfred and Ivan retreated a moment.

Only the dark of the theatre witnessed their kiss, brief and sweet. It was a week since they started taking Matthew’s terrible advice, and the experience of kisses was a novel one. They ‘practiced’ affections whenever possible, completely hooked.

“Ghosts! Scrooge! Don’t run off!” the cutting voice of the director found them in the darkness, barely covered up by thick fabric curtains and off-key christmas carol. Alfred was due to appear any second now.

Looking a little flush and adjusting his costume, Alfred emerged from darkness. The other children assumed this was all nerves. The whole crew was a little scared to be on stage. They looked to their director for comfort, finding it in her Hollywood-white smile.

Ivan stayed in the shadows, grinning like a fool and pressing hands to his thundering heart. He rejoined others in the light as Alfred entered stage right to perform. A booming “Bah humbug!” in deep southern accent started off the production official.

 _“Damn it, Alfred,”_ Angelique hissed under her breath with venom. The rest of the children were entranced by the improvised change. The audience was eating it up like candy.

The play was moving along well enough, only two moments were the other kids forgot lines. Alfred was thriving in the spotlight, and the crowd seemed only half bored. That was a record success for a school play!

It wasn’t until the second scene that things started drifting off course. The ghost of Marley, played by Lars, was the deceased business partner of scrooge coming to warn Scrooge of his fate. Covered in fake chains and baby powder, the angry child stomped onto the stage in the bedroom scene.

His line was supposed to be “In life, I was your business partner, Jacob Marley.” 

Instead the ghost of Jacob Marley was a rather jarring figure. “I’m your dead business partner, Jacob Marley. You are a tax dodging jerk!”

Alfred rolled his eyes in most dramatic fashion, insisting on using his southern accent. “You came back the dead to nag me about tax forms?” The audience laughed, ripples of chuckling to follow.

_“Filing your taxes is important!”_

“The only important things in life are money, and shrimp gumbo!” Another roll of audience laughter lapped forth as children behind the curtain began to panic. Lars and Alfred were arguing yet again, both too bullheaded for common sense. Even on a stage they were not functional. Director Angelique fumed and glared at her only good actor.

Alfred got the message, dropping the argument. “Oh ghost of Jacob Marley! Why do you come here?” Finally the script was back on track. Gilbert’s wild whoops of support from the audience were only out matched by the gym teacher’s hoots and whistles.

Mr. Zwingli, the school principal was seen getting up only once to slap the enthusiastic gym teacher with a play pamphlet. He then returned to his front row chair.

Elise did great in her role as the ghost of Christmas Past. She obviously wasn’t the same calibre as Alfred. Regardless, she didn’t trip on her costume and got all her words out. The real trouble was the scene after. 

Ivan was coping well enough. Looking as pale as his ghostly make-up, he had a white knuckle grip on his furry costume. “Ghost of Christmas Present. Go.” The director urged softly, pushing him. Ivan had already missed his cue by several seconds.

Ivan walked to centre stage, not where he was supposed to be. Oh no.

“Fezziwig!” Alfred went on, still rocking that thick accent.

“H-hello Scrooge.” Ivan tottered as he spoke, voice cracking from puberty and stage fright.

“But… You can’t be Fezziwig!”

“Do you… s-see me as… Do you…” Ivan hadn’t taken a single breath yet, eyes locked in fear on the audience. With a hitched squeak of a gasp, he went down. Ivan had passed out cold from fright. Despite this, Alfred continued on. He once more improvised as the director groaned in the back.

“Yes, it seems my southern charms make even ghosts swoon! I am the most rugged cowboy turned businessman in all of Texas.” As the audience laughed and gasped in concern for Ivan, Alfred set a foot on Ivan’s limp form. Posing on Ivan’s body like a pirate, he rambled on.

“Oh yes, for I, Ebenezer Scrooge, am a fine looking slab of beef. Marbled and seasoned.”

Production was out of control now. Lars stomped back on stage. “What did you do to him?!”

“Oh, you know him?” Alfred replied smoothly.

“I know him from work! Ghost work! You wouldn’t get it!”

“Ghost work? You barely did work in life!”

Both boys looked back to their angry director, then to the audience. “Intermission! Hi Dad!” Alfred called out, waving to his parents.

Arthur looked unamused, but Francis watched with starry eyes of pride. He had insisted for years that Alfred was a natural actor in the making. Alfred was carrying the entire play by this point.

Lars smiled to the audience as well. “Hi uncle Gil!”

Gilbert whooped and cheered right back, pulled back into his seat by his brother. With that, an early intermission started. The boys retreated behind the closing curtains, two adults going on stage to drag a larger Ivan. He was still out cold.

Angelique couldn’t help but curse in the icy parking lot during intermission.

More disasters were to come. The ghost of Christmas Future, Matthew, had zero stage fright like Alfred. He also had no talent, despite lacking lines. He ran up and hugged his brother, forgetting his role entirely. After that, he tripped over a microphone cord. 

Naturally the ghost of Marley ran out to see if the ghost of Christmas Future was okay. Apparently Marley had made friends with all the other ghosts at “ghost work”. The long suffering play finally came to an end, ending in a roar of laughter. Ivan was still woozy backstage, looking rather bloodless. The director braced herself for the worst debut of her entire life… only to hear unexpected reactions.

_“Making Christmas Carol a comedy was a genius move!”_

_“That Scrooge was great.”_

_“Did that bigger kid break his face or what?”_

Dear God. People had actually _liked_ the play.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angelique = Monaco


	20. Other Fish in the Sea

Alfred was excited. The entire bus was packed with children for a field trip to the aquarium. Mr. Køhlerson, Lars’s awesome uncle Gilbert, and Mr. Yao were the chaperones. Gilbert and Matthias were almost as excited as the students. Mr. Yao rolled his eyes, wishing he could have a smoke.

The noisy bus parked finally, and the Chinese teacher was the first to escape. He used the lie of roll call to get fresh air and light up a cigarette. He took a puff occasionally as he checked off the names of those present.

The kids were electric with energy, barely listening in the parking lot. “Remember kids! Groups of two or more! Remember the buddy you were assigned.” While Yao was an ignored frazzled mess, the gym teacher and Gilbert were giggling idiots. The hoard of people was already drifting to the entrance of the grand building. They drove to Toronto for this opportunity. Everyone was eager to use the bathroom after an hour and a half of driving.

The Aquarium in the city was more impressive than anything Kitchener could muster. There was a shark tunnel, glowing jellyfish tanks, and starfish kids could pet. In no time at all, Matthias and Gilbert were at the starfish tank with several kids.

Petting the unique spongy texture of the creatures, Matthias bragged the depths of his marine knowledge. “The Little Mermaid used these as a bra.”

With dim lighting and poor vision, Gilbert squinted at the  informative wall poster. “It says uh… that the underside of starfish is a mouth.”

They both withdrew their hands from the tank in silent horror.

Kiku, rather advanced for his class, rolled his eyes but said nothing. He figured his gym teacher was an idiot a long time ago by virtue of being a gym teacher. Still, both grown men’s intellects showed true colour.

“Holy crap, what about mermaid pants? Are they made of mouths too? Do these mouths have teeth?” The gym teacher went on.

“Bro, I don’t want to know!” The pale one was more retarded than Mr. Køhlerson, it seemed.

Disgusted by the overall drop of IQ in the room, Kiku wandered off to find Alfred. The two shared a unique kinship that Kiku wasn’t blind to. He had felt his soul tingle since before the play debut. The Japanese prodigy knew a crush when he felt it. At least here in Canada he had a realistic possibility of exploring it.

Kiku wandered past the octopus display, then paused. The cephalopod stared at him with alien eyes, arms curling drunkenly around colourful rocks. Kiku stared back in threat, whispering “I eat your kind as a _snack_.”

The octopus hid behind it’s rocks. Good.

Alfred was around this living dinner menu somewhere. It took a few moments to locate the subject of Kiku’s pining affections. Alfred was the prize of a great duel, a fair haired prince. Kiku imagined himself to be the noble ronin that aligned with this prince to fight a great demon. This would be over an arcing three season plot involving kisses under the sakura blossoms.

Kiku’s imagination could be hyperactive sometimes. Alfred was currently looking wonderful in the blue lights of the shark tunnel, fine sapphire eyes showcased. Kiku approached, his warrior bravery fading fast.

“Alfred-san,” Kiku called out, unable to say much more.

“Keeks! Isn’t this place cool?” Alfred was unaware the power he held in this moment. He could ask the raven haired boy to rig a school test. He could make Kiku wear ugly matching sweaters with him. The lovesick japanese boy would do it in a second.

“Yes. It’s very cool,” Kiku babbled, sitting next to his crush. The shark painted metal bench was rather small, forcing them to sit closely. They were brushing fingers in this intimate setting. This was destiny calling. Finally, Kiku could --

He was forcibly pushed off the bench from behind. He didn’t fall, but tottered a minute on his feet. Kiku whipped around, ready to curse his latest obstacle to romance. He froze up at who it was.

It was Ivan Braginsky. The boy was a tank of a person, with cutting intelligence to match. He bore down on Kiku with a menacing smirk, looking absolutely murderous. “So sorry, I didn’t mean to push you.” He was not sincere in the slightest.

In this tunnel of sharks, the tall Slav was the apex predator. He had pushed a shorter kiku like he was a balloon. Kiku wanted to say something clever or witty, but all he could do was stare.

“Dude that was rude,” Alfred whined, unaffected as Ivan stole Kiku’s spot. Until now this was the only time Alfred had been unguarded by his known football buddy.

“Sorry,” Ivan repeated, not sorry at all.

“Are we still on for Fortnite this weekend?” Alfred asked, oblivious to the tension in the air.

“Yes, if you want,” Kiku agreed, thankful Alfred was so thick in the skull.

Ivan frowned, a possessive monster in human skin. Kiku wished he was even remotely a match for the powerhouse. “But Fedya, we need to study for that test?”

Alfred perked up at the mention, then blush a little. “Oh um, right. I’m sorry Keeks, I forgot I need to pick up a grade.”

Kiku had Alfred’s schedule and general academic lineup memorized. The guy was doing just fine, great even. There was something greater at work here, and he had no idea what it was.

“I could help you both study,” Kiku offered slyly, supposed to be in advanced classes as it was.

Ivan glared at Kiku with the hatred of a thousand burning suns. “No, but thanks for the offer.”

Kiku took the subtle social cue, leaving but hardly giving up. He would win his prince another way. Now was the time to see what all that chinese yelling was a few rooms over. No doubt Leon was stirring up shit again with someone.

The Aquarium snack stand was a rainbow of choices, leaving Matthew flummoxed. Lars had given him the money to purchase something. The shy preteen wanted to make the _very best_ choice.

‘Oh, I don’t know. So many kinds of popsicles! Oh wow, do they have ice cream too?’ Matthew browsed the aquarium snacks menu. The guy at the counter seemed annoyed with Matthew’s lack of conversation.

Lars, however, squinted at the guy behind the counter, arms crossed. "Stop staring at my friend like that," he began, really put out at the other man's attitude. "Can't you tell he's deaf?" He growled a few moments later before returning his attention to Matthew.

'Which one do you wanna get?' Lars asked the other blonde. Never mind if the line behind them was getting pretty long. He knew Matthew was indecisive when it came to sweet treats. Couldn't other people wait?

Leon, Emil, and six other kids were already looking really pretty steamed. Matthew couldn’t hear such complaints, nor had he intended to be such an obstacle. He was too pure for such malice. ‘I uh… think…’ He raised his hand to make a choice.

The line perked up in anticipation.

‘I’m not sure. What do you want?’ Matthew asked sweetly. Everyone groaned.

'What do _you_ want?' Lars mirrored, turning his back to the lengthening line of kids, his attention on Matthew. 'Just pick something you want to try.'

‘Well. Maybe… um.. That one, or… um….’

Leon interrupted Matthew’s pondering loudly, not that the deaf kid heard anything. “Pick something! Taking forever!”

"Don't rush him!" Lars bellowed back in the kid's face. "He's deaf! Or didn't you hear me earlier?!"

“Even deaf people pick food faster than this!” The Chinese boy fumed.

"Wait your turn! He's still picking!" The Dutch child fumed back, folding his arms over his chest once more. Why did people dish out their dislike towards deaf people so quickly? The discrimination disgusted him so much.

Matthew meanwhile heard nothing, in all this conflict he was actually picking a lovely rainbow popsicle. No one seemed to notice.

“Why do you _always_ stand up for him? He takes too long doing anything!” Leon was mad now, the most energetic of Yao’s brood.

"Why do you care to know?! You'd all trample over him and take advantage of him just because he's deaf, either way!" Lars snapped back, refusing to give in.

Matthew was now paying for his cool treat.

Leon made a low threat of a noise, like all frustrated children do. “All you do is make everything stupid!” The first blow of combat was delivered. Lars was lightly pushed in the heat of fighting.

"Watch your dirty mouth!" Lars snapped, not taking to being shoved around. It was one of the hazardous things that came with defending Matthew. Other kids wanted to beat him up, so instead, here he was. "Take that back!" He continued, voice rising as he glared the Chinese kid down.

Leon looked so damn smug, arms crossed. “NO!”

"Jerk!" He countered, arms still crossed. "You rude dis… di… stop picking on disabled people!"

He really wanted to throw the first punch but knew he had to stand his ground!

“Get out of the way!” other kids called out. Matthew, not hearing a thing, had wandered off to look at a jellyfish tank. “Yeah! Move!” Leon taunted, keen to win this encounter. He was always competitive, on any team that was popular.

“Why are you all disrespectful jerks?!” Lars countered, still standing his ground. “ _We_ don’t complain when _you_ take an eternity picking out your food, do we?!” he added a few moments later, a scowl growing on his features. Ugh. What was wrong with these kids anyway? Absolutely no respect! 

“I’m not slow! You’re slow!” Leon bristled at the accusation of being slow, a star athlete. Thus the final boundary was crossed. Leon lightly pushed Lars. This erupted into a childish cycle of violence immediately.

Mr. Køhlerson and Mr. Yao were quick to intervene, only one room over. As Mr. Yao yelled angrily in Mandarin to his own child, the tall Dane pulled the boys apart. Lars wheezed from battle and anger as he was set aside.

With Leon lectured by the starfish tank in Mandarin, Lars was berated by Gilbert. “Why are you biting people!?” No one seemed to care as this played out. They could finally get their ice cream.

"Uncle Gil! They were being mean jerks to Mattie! I don't complain when _they_ take forever to pick out their food, do I?!" Lars huffed, crossing his as over his chest. There were the beginnings of a spectacular black eye blooming on his face, and his lip was starting to bleed as well, but he didn't care! He _had_ to defend Matthew!

“That’s… That’s noble of you, but there’s a time and place.” Gilbert dragged a hand over his face, absolutely exasperated. Encounters like these happened frequently. “You have to pick your battles, or you lose the war, bratwurst.”

“He started it!” Lars whined, riled for his cause.

“So, where is Matthew in this?” Gilbert asked in very German deadpan manner.

At this, Lars’s eyes went wide in fear. He was so invested in fighting, he lost track of his cause. In panic, he ran off seeking his symbiotic half. Matthew wasn’t far, sitting on a bench. The happy deaf child was licking his rainbow popsicle, dazzled by the jellyfish display.

Lars rushed over, an anxious guard dog of a child as he signed. ‘Are you okay?’

Matthew nodded, pointing to the tank. ‘Pretty.’

Lars looked at the bobbing creatures, indifferent to such things. He had only come to the aquarium because that jerk Leon would be here. The elitist Asian had opinions that clashed with Matthew’s existence. Lars wasn’t going to take a second of it.

After a moment Matthew clued in. ‘Oh no, someone hit you! Were you in a fight?’ Lars was smothered in concern, holding Matthew’s icy treat. He snuck a few licks as Matthew checked out his latest injury.

‘I’m fine. Didn’t you see what he did?’ Lars asked after handing back the treat, a bite missing out of it.

‘Who? I picked this then left.’ Matthew gestured to his popsicle. Lars slouched, realizing Matthew hadn’t witnessed his act of bravery. The wheaten blond had not noticed a single thing, again. Sensing sadness in his other half, Matthew hugged Lars. ‘Thank you for defending my honour.’

Lars blushed, unnamed something fluttering about in his chest. He lost words sometimes. It was probably just a teenage thing starting to sneak up on the boys. Only after Matthew let go, did Lars’s brain decide to work. ‘It… It was nothing.’

‘You didn’t get anything?’ Matthew asked sweetly.

Lars shook his head, bizarrely shy. In all the fighting, he never ordered his orange sherbert ice cream.

‘You can have more of mine.’ The other boy offered so much so easily. It made Lars disgusted the world would snuff out such a brilliant light.

Lars nodded and joined Matthew for a bench side view of jellyfish. The world was a little better in this silent moment of companionship.


	21. Consequences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When naughty children get into trouble, this is the result.

Principal Zwingli was unimpressed as he sat at his desk. Before him sat two naughty little boys, separated by parents almost as exhausted as Vash.

Mr. Beilschmidt cleared his throat, thankfully more serious than his albino brother. “I understand my son caused a disturbance on the trip?”

 _"Don't call me that,"_ Lars mumbled under his breath in Dutch. He continued to glare daggers at the elitist jerk who sat across him. "He started it! Being impatient in line and all!" He pointed at Leon for emphasis. "Rude and absolutely disrespectful!"

“HE STARTED IT!” Leon declared, as angry as ever. “Matthew takes forever doing anything!”

"Can't you understand **_he's deaf?!_ ** " Lars roared, standing up and glaring at the annoying Chinese kid. "Stop being so… so… _ableist_ !" He added a few moments later. He knew how bad the discrimination was, but he had no idea that it was **_this_ ** bad. It made his skin crawl.

“I don’t care about him being deaf! There’s tons of deaf kids! Matthew needs to stop being a slow poke!” Leon would not be stopped, until he was. Mr. Yao slapped his boy up the head, very traditional. 

“Apologize now, or no miso soup!” 

Leon simmered in silent hate at this threat, then spoke up. “I’m sorry.”

Mr. Beilschmidt looked to Lars with absolute authority. “Accept this apology, please. We can talk after.”

“No!” Lars shouted to the world, getting more worked up than ever. “No, no, no! NEVER! I will never accept that anyone could be mean to Mattie!”

Mr. B was really losing control, never having had it at all. “Now Lars…”

"Say sorry to Matthew too, you jerk!" He added. There was a permanent scowl on his face now. "I've seen this happen before! Back home! Kids picking on disabled kids and it makes me sick!"

At this, Lars turned to face the principal.

"Mattie told me your daughter… that miss Elise is the same. It's not fair. Disabled people being treated like dirt. Why can't other kids learn a shred of respect?!" He went on. He had seen this before, back in the Netherlands. And how quickly things were handled. Disabled people, at least on this side of the world, appeared to be passed over or entirely ignored. Or becoming the target of bullies.

Vash was faced with this social warrior on a daily basis, largely immune to this brand of heroism. He only saw the faces of young naive soldiers by such words. _The words of children_. Still, hope was hardly a sin. Mr. Zwingli left his desk, crouching to eye level with the spiky haired preteen.

“The intention of what you did was very noble… but violence is wrong. You _bit a person_ , very against school policy. You will help the groundskeeper for two weeks as punishment after school.” Vash stood and glared at Leon next. “I understand where you come from this behaviour is acceptable. Here, it is not. Two week of detention. You will additionally write an essay on why discrimination is wrong.”

The stone cold principal smirked. He looked to both parents. “Is this acceptable?”

Leon complained loudly. “THIS SUCKS-”

Mr. Yao covered his son’s mouth frantically, muffling him. “Yes sir.”

Lars looked ready to steam out his ears from anger, but said nothing.

“Thank you for your time.” Ludwig replied thankfully, quick to drag his son out of the office. Leon was already out in the parking lot, in a very Chinese screaming match as he was forced into an abused car.

Lars and Ludwig remained silent, the drive tense. Adoptive father and child had never seen eye to eye on much of anything, but things needed to be addressed.

At a red light, Mr. B broke the mile thick ice between them.

“Lars?”

The child rarely responded to him. This was another time of silence.

“ _Laurence_.”

The boy snapped into life finally, as bitter as expected. “That’s not my name! You’re not my dad! I hate all of this!”

Ludwig didn’t react, for any shade of teen was basically a monster. He had to remain strong in these times of testing. Driving on, he spoke. “I know how much you… care for Matthew. But the world is not a perfect place. They will always be people that discriminate against Matthew, or people like him.”

“It’s not fair! Mattie’s perfect!” Lars was too close to see what he had, too innocent. He didn’t know what lay ahead.

“You have to deal with this better through non-violence, or you’ll get into trouble. Adult trouble. You know where bad adults go? Jail.” Ludwig decided to dumb down his approach. Sometimes it worked with the prickly creature.

“I don’t care. Mattie’s worth getting in trouble.”

Mr. Beilschmidt sighed, giving up for now. Lars rarely learned anything.

Francis chuckled as he scrolled his phone. He had been doing this for several minutes while lounging on the couch. The parents were alone today, with Alfred at Ivan’s house. Matthew was still being Lars’s living shadow as he performed community service for the school.

“For the love of the Queen, _what_ are you amused with?” Arthur snapped, desiring to read his magazine in peace.

“Berwald posted a video, you have to see!” Francis crooned, shoving the phone in his husband’s face.

It was a video of Matthew and Lars being the most useless gardeners on the planet. For every bit of progress, there was dropped supplies and distractions. The boys were current sitting in the flower bed they were supposed to deweed, placing bright yellow dandelions in each other’s hair.

Berwald being Berwald, the Abba song “Waterloo” was playing over the otherwise silent video.

“Isn’t it precious?” Francis squealed in joy, reblogging it instantly. “He does one every day with a different Abba song!” Arthur snorted in disgust and buried himself in his reading material. Secretly, he gave a small smile. _Kids_.


	22. Teenage Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for underage naughtiness!

Claude had a social life. He was a growing person with separate interests and wants. Again and again he was shunted into this stupid babysitting business. Claude was nineteen! He had friends to meet, colleges to apply to. Other provinces and US states to visit. Yet here he was… driving  a car packed with kids.

Elise’s grand colonial came into view. Ivan was in the passenger seat. Lars and his other half were squashed in the back, along with Alfred. The excited energy of the pack was tangible. This was supposed to be the sleepover of all sleepovers. Elise, the richest kid in school, was hosting the biggest end of year slumber party ever. As a gesture of goodwill, she had made the event mixed gender as to not be sexist.

Claude was _not_ prepared for how grand the house would be. It was not a house, or even a manor. The Zwingli household was a damn _mansion_ , two stories with dozens of windows. Everything looked immaculate and pulled from TV. Even after he parked in the driveway, Claude couldn’t stop gaping in awe.

“It’s just Elise’s house!” Lars dismissed, unaffected by the glamour of it all. He and Matthew barrelled out of the car to the insanely fancy mansion. All four kids were on the move now, raucous noise and life.

Closing his mouth, the older teen got himself together and locked the car. All four idiots had left their backpacks behind, so Claude was hauling that along too. Pack mule _and_ child herder. He felt so disrespected!

In the foyer of the place, a stern parent burned holes into Claude with steely green eyes. Holy crap, Elise’s dad was the elementary school principal. For some reason, a brunet guy in opera appropriate clothes accompanied him. They looked cold and pretentious together. Were they dating? It was a thought that came to Claude shorty after being allowed inside.

“Claude.” The principal greeted him with a voice like razor blades.

Claude winced at the man remembering him. Was Mr. Zwingli still mad about Claude denting his car after getting a learner’s permit? That was three years ago!

“I expect a clean slumber party, with no mischief. Three kids attending have severe nut allergies. Not a single peanut or almond, _or anything_... is allowed to be present,” The adult lectured Claude fiercely.

“Yes sir,” Claude replied, still terrified of the guy that chased him through a parking lot.

“If so much as a hair on my Elise’s head is harmed…” Mr. Zwingli’s threat trailed off as he looked over to his brunette companion. Claude distantly recalled the guy being Lars’s music tutor. He had had not interacted with the snooty creature enough for familiarity.

 **_“HI MISTER MUSIC TEACHER!”_ ** Lars yelled as he raced by, Matthew and friends not far behind. The guy being referred to seemed to ignore this screeching greeting.

“Are you very much done threatening this plebe?” the brunette asked, with absolute pompousness. Wow. _Rude_. Claude’s eyes twitched for a few seconds at the barb.

Mr. Zwingli’s air of intimidation waffled. He blushed and looked down. “Y-yes. We should go. Can’t be late.”

Leanne was supposed to be Claude’s backup. Handling a pack of kids this large alone was impossible. Where was she? She promised she wouldn’t take forever at the mall _again_ ! Containing this bubble of panic within, Claude pretended to be just _fine_. He watched the parent and music teacher depart, then locked up.

There were kids running up the stairs, through the halls, hanging off banisters. This was more than Claude could handle. It wasn’t worth the pay. About five minutes in, he had already lost complete control. Nine kids were here, wild with pre-adolescent energy.

Trembling from stress, Claude yelled “ **TIME FOR GAMES!** ”

It was a broken sound, a desperate attempt to restore order. It worked. The call echoed throughout this enormous mansion of a house. Why anyone owned a property this large was unknown to him.

Leanne didn’t show up until an hour into the babysitting stint. Claude was _absolutely pissed_. As she kicked off her shoes, she was texting god knows what from school. He glared at his sister in silent rage.

“What? It was Nina taking us to Aldos. She is super popular! It would have been social suicide if I ditched before Wonton Palace,” She justified her grave absence with a shallow hair flip.

Claude walked away, no words capable of expressing his disappointment. It was something reminiscent of their cruel blood father in the Netherlands. Today the older boy was just too angry to be polite.

“Drama queen,” The younger sister muttered, following behind. Most of the kids were engrossed in a combination of table tennis, an action movie and painting nails. Bizarrely, Ivan was painting Elise’s nails.

“You’re an autumn. I know it.” The growing teen went on in Russian lilted english.

“She so is.” Another girl chimed in, putting curlers in Elise’s hair.

“I got a high score! I’m winning! See?” Alfred called out.

Ivan didn’t watch Alfred play table tennis at all, humming “Yes… Of course. You are the winning…” between careful nail polish strokes.

Kiku meanwhile was in a tough game with Alfred. The Japanese boy’s adoptive sibling Leon watching a fierce ping pong battle between the two. Matthew was waiting impatiently for his turn to play. Lars and two other boys were engrossed by the gory action movie between phone glances.

All of this was rather surreal, taking place in an absurdly fancy restored mansion. The chaos of children among 1860’s architecture was bizarre. Of course, unreliable Leanne had to ruin this too. “All these games are lame,” She announced loudly. All the preteens looked to her in confusion.

“Excuse me?” Elise asked, her fair hair still being done up.

“Truth or dare! Let’s live a little!” Her temptation, her great party sin, worked. Everyone was utterly delighted by the idea.

“Dare! I call dare!” Alfred yelled, abandoning his game. Matthew, not having heard a thing, took a solid minute to clue in. Once the universal bottle spinning on the floor was set up, everyone knew was going down.

Most of the kids participated, though they took turns sitting back in bean bag chairs and eating popcorn meant for the movie. Alfred grabbed the bottle first, true to his claim. “First!”

A few kids chuckled and watched the plastic coke bottle spin. It was too light, and kept spinning out. Frustrated, Elise took a period vase off a sturdy stand. No one considered that it might get broken. No one but Claude, who was sweating nervously.

“Maybe we should, you know, not use the old vase to —” The vase was sent spinning with no heed to Claude’s warning.

It landed on Leon, Kiku’s brother. They were both under the care of Mr. Yao, the history teacher. Alfred smirked. “I dare you to slap Kiku.” Wow that kid was a douche, the opposite of his brother Matthew.

Leon slapped his sibling without hesitation. Kiku was shocked by the sudden betrayal. The vase was then spun. “My turn!” 

The bottle ended on Elise, who braced for a mean dare. Leon was thankfully less mean to others. “Truth. Did you puke on stage before the play debut?”

Elise looked disgusted. “Eww. No. My turn!” The vase ended fatefully on Lars. The boy looked bewildered he was included at all.

“Dare. You have to say something mean about Mat.”

"Why? There's nothing bad to say about him," Lars spoke defensively, without thinking. He was pretty sure that the other kids would pick on him about it, but didn’t care. "Make me," he added, crossing his arms. Oh he was going to make this harder for everyone.

 _“Told you he can’t,”_ Ivan remarked, looking so smug.

“... then you gotta tell a truth instead. Who was your first kiss?” The group was mean already!

"What kind of stupid question is that?!" Lars snapped, rolling his eyes. "Of course, the first person any kid kisses on the cheek are their parents! My… mother in this case," he adds with a sad little sigh. He still missed her.

Everyone but hard of hearing Elise and deaf Matthew groaned. “Just spin the bottle man!” Emil whined from his beanbag chair.

 _ **"STOP USING THE VASE!"**_ Claude all but screamed, finding this the perfect time to rescue it from the floor and replace it with an empty water bottle filled with coins when he returned. Kids these days.

"Oh, fine," Lars grumbled, after giving the new bottle a test spin. While being on the noisier side of things, it did work reasonably well.

After a second spin, it landed on Ivan.

"Were _you_ the one who threw up on stage?" He bluntly asked the giant Russian.

“Uh, no,” Ivan replied hesitantly, not expecting such a question. A few kids cheered, but two cringed. “I… I didn’t mean to...” The ash blonde grumbled. The bottle was spun as Ivan looked embarrassed, landing on Kiku.

“Do you have a crush on anyone?” This question hung in the air, heavy for the Japanese boy.

Kiku looked a little pale. “Please Ivan-san, pick dare.”

Alfred watched Kiku in surprise. _“Woah, you got a crush?!”_

Lars's eyebrows went up a little at this sudden question from Ivan. He knew that the Japanese boy hung around Alfred quite a bit, but there was something else in the air. Was he seeing things? Or did Ivan's stare get a little colder after that?

Ivan put forth a jar of pickled banana peppers. “Eat one of these.”

Kiku popped the jar open, eating it without trouble. He even enjoyed it, leaving Ivan rather put out. The bottle was spun, landing on Emil. “Eat one of these!”

Hot peppers made the rounds. Only the Asian crew could eat them without flinching. Many dares were silly things, like licking random objects. The truths were equally cliche, involving crushes and who was cheating on school tests. Leanne snapped a dozen pictures of reaction faces as Claude watched in utter disapproval. The game, once light hearted, turned heavy. Lars was given another turn, after slowly piecing together Ivan’s bizarre behaviour.

Lars had the audacity to smirk as he dared Ivan. “I dare you to spend seven minutes in heaven with Alfred.”

Alfred and Ivan paled, sputtering objections. “Eww. I mean, why would anyone do that, I mean—”

“Why would I want to die for seven minutes!?” Ivan argued in hormone broken voice, traumatized. Alfred rolled his eyes and leaned in and whispered in his ear. After a moment, Ivan calmed down. “Oh. Sitting in a closet. I can do that.”

“Not sitting in a closet, like… other stuff in the closet.” Alfred whispered harshly. Several kids giggled.

Ivan was still not grasping the cultural divide, partially raised in Russia. He raised a brow, then shrugged and mumbled something in Russian. Alfred was dying of blush beside him, hiding in his borrowed sweater.

"Well? You two doing it or not?" Lars continued, the smuggest smirk on his features just threatening to give away what he'd accidentally discovered.

Ivan shrugged and stood. “Okay. I’ll sit in a closet for seven minutes.”

Alfred, meanwhile, was absolutely horrified. “We can’t, it’s weird, It’s not even… **_STOP DRAGGING ME!_ **” He squawked and flailed as Ivan tugged him along. Everyone laughed and made light of this.

"Have fun in Narnia," Lars called after them. He noted that Alfred was totally freaking out and losing his mind over it. But Ivan wasn't.

 _"Finally, some quiet,"_ he mumbled a few moments later, once the two had disappeared into the closet down the hall. Without teasing Alfred into the ground, a lot of the game’s appeal fell away. Several kids scattered back to their original activities. Matthew, who was lost on almost everything passed a note to Emil.

“Who cares about Al? The movie was at a good part!” The kid dismissed the paper, ignorant to Matthew being deaf.

"Oh come here," Lars mumbled as he resisted the urge to roll his eyes at Emil. He approached Matthew. 'What do you want to do?' He asked of the other blonde.

‘What was everyone saying? Where did Alfred go?’ Matthew was worried more than anything.

Lars shook his head, amused. ‘Your brother will be fine.’

The closet was dark and stuffy. Ivan wasn’t terribly impressed with this eleven minutes on the heavens, or whatever the other kids called it. “Fedya, I am bored,” he whispered.

On the other hand, Alfred was blushing something fierce and indecent. He tried to hide the lower half of his face in the sweater he had on, to no avail. "Aw, how c-can you be so bored? How long have we been in here?" He asked the other. Honestly, had it already been seven minutes?

“I don’t know. Is someone coming to get us?” It was so cramped in the dark, forcing them to sit smooshed together.

"Th-thankfully… no. We're fine here. Although…" he trailed off, before hearing a sharp banging on the other side of the closet door.

"Geez, you two are boring! What are you doing in there, talking like little old ladies?!" Lars grumbled out. "You've been in there what, two minutes? Come on! Give us something good!" He taunted before turning away, presumably to leave them to do their thing.

If Alfred could die from blush, he would've done so. “He’s such a dick,” he whispered. He snuggled Ivan’s shoulder for comfort, a rather recent behaviour that only occured in private. Ivan put an arm around the other instinctively.

“He is, but there’s worse out there.” At this, Ivan nuzzled Alfred.

Feeling daring, Alfred squirmed and wiggled his way onto Ivan’s lap. It was the only way to gain height equality in this dark, small space. Hormones sang in this time a clear tune, one all teenagers know. Bodily curiosity. “Ivy?”

Ivan didn’t have an opportunity to speak. He was kissed, this time with energy. The boys had been trying cute little kisses, and hand holding in the secret of the dark. Rarely had any of these things become so adult.

With a shallow breath, they continued this dance of tongues. It was joyful and electric, however clumsy they were. With fumbled touches in the dark, Ivan was soon on top and eating Alfred alive with kisses. Oppressed homosexuality burned in the dark, rarely escaping Ivan’s controlled exterior.

Alfred was trapped, his insides hot and coiling. This all felt relatively new and good. So good, then perhaps _**too**_ good. “Ivy, I… Ivy, I’m… I feel weird… I…” Alfred bled out breathy words, muffling himself with his own hand.

Ivan growled between trailing kisses on Alfred’s neck, obviously into things. Heavily breathing, Ivan paused his attack. “Fedya… You are… excited.” A strong hand brushed against Alfred’s painfully stiff cock, jeans not dulling the interaction enough.

“Ah, don’t I’m… Don’t, Ivy, I…” Alfred writhed and bowed with each touch, barely making words. Ivan wouldn’t relent until Alfred arched and gasped. Fingers gripped the floor coats they lay on as Alfred gave into basal pleasure. He went slack after, a relaxed mess.

“My pants...” He whispered softly, surprised he had come. This experience was still new to both boys who were on the bleeding edge of becoming true teens. Alfred had only newly discovered masturbating. This whole encounter was a puzzle in itself.

Ivan ran a finger over where Alfred had been so perked before. It was softening, and rather damp. Still wound up himself, the bigger boy was unsure how to establish a conversation. Still, he was Russian and blunt as ever.

“Did you… um. Spill yourself?” Ivan whispered, lacking the words and knowledge.

“You feel weird but really nice.” Alfred admitted, grateful for the darkness.

“I do?” Ivan was curious, still too aroused to move move comfortably. He had to urge to… Well he wasn’t sure what to do about this, having great difficulty thinking at all. 

In this close privacy, Alfred’s hand snaked into Ivan’s track pants. Gently cupping Ivan’s erection while it was still in boxers, Alfred whispered “Is this okay?”

 _“Yes…”_ Ivan took in a ragged breath, more aware of how excited he was. He was a year older than Alfred, and _very_ familiar with the sensation of masturbating. Other people triggering this need was new though. Craving friction, Ivan held Alfred close and began to rut.

It was the barest of touches, but a brand new experience for either youth. In this dark space, they weren’t judged as they learned from each other. This was the first time since outside of ‘sleepovers’ that Ivan allowed such openness.

The teens panted for air between kisses. These were mostly to silence Ivan as he built up his own personal peak. Soft still touch moved, Alfred became braver. A few touches brushed against Ivan’s ballsack through taut fabric. The electric pleasure of the motion was too good to him, heart pounding. He put a hand over his mouth before he yelled out Alfred’s name blindly. Pressed tight into his friend’s remaining grip, Ivan came as his vision popped.

They both still tingled from the aftershock as they lay in the dark. “You’re my best friend. _Mine,_ ” Ivan yawned, hit with the urge to nap. He held Alfred closely, brimming with warm fuzzies and bliss.

“You too Ivy.” This sentiment was sealed with a blind kiss in the dark. These exchanges were like candy for Alfred, making him melt inside.

With hands still clean, Alfred hummed and held the bigger male. They relaxed for a few minutes, then Alfred groaned. Ivan was a lot of dead weight on top, and they were both _sticky_. “We should clean up. Did you bring extra underwear?” Alfred whispered as he wriggled free. He peeked out a crack of the closet door. He couldn’t help but blush, still pleased from this wonderful encounter.

Lars was being a prick and guarding nearby, but he was very distracted by an ASL chatty Matthew. Sure enough, the deaf sibling lead their tormentor away to change into sleeping clothes. It seemed everyone was getting ready for scary stories.

The boys took this opportunity to escape, under cover of loud music. They emerged with the rest of the crowd, both looking innocent as they could. Alfred was rocking blue autobot PJs, while Ivan wore purple and black decepticon sleep pants with a white shirt.

Lars looked disappointed he hadn’t caught Ivan or Alfred, marching over. “What happened in there?” He seemed to be the only one hellbent on bugging Alfred since forever. Why wouldn’t he worship Alfred’s blazing charisma like everyone else?

 _“Nothin’,”_ Alfred was just as snide and cold as he lied. Neither boy was emotionally capable of addressing pre-hand jobs in a closet. More importantly, they had both obviously enjoyed the event. That was something else entirely. “Leave us alone.”

“Yeah, we’re watching a movie,” Ivan agreed with a muffled mouth of popcorn. Like the kissing, shy hand holding, and soft looks, Ivan was more enthusiastic about things. It was clear now, even at _this_ age, the giant preteen was _very_ gay.

It all made Alfred wonder about himself, his place and rank in the world. What _was_ he? Who was he becoming? These were big kid questions he felt uncomfortable with. It was easier to watch the movie, or play video games with Kiku and Leon.

More importantly, Alfred needed to tell the partial truth to Kiku soon. The Japanese boy’s loving pining was hardly subtle. Ivan was an inferno of emerging jealousy over it, sometimes turning aggressive. There were _**things**_ Alfred wanted to do and learn with Ivan. These were wildly inappropriate when imagined with other boys. They were soft secret acts that made Alfred’s gut twist with warmth.

If Kiku wanted to do similar adult-like things with Alfred, this was going to be a problem. Alfred could only try his best, being the emotional diplomat for once. Kiku was a really cool friend. It would be a shame to lose him over misunderstandings.

Elise waved the last of the kids out the door, her dad behind her. “Thank you all for coming! Bye!” Emil was the last to get picked up by his big brother Lukas, the old car a homemade shade of black when it drove away after. The light of dawn was fully bloomed into late morning now, Elise still in her green sleeping gown.

Vash closed the door. “Did you have fun, sweetie?”

“I did.”

“Good girl. Help Daddy clean up, then we can watch your show together.” At this, Elise was racing off to gather dishes.

Vash watched her wistfully. Maybe he spoiled Elise rotten. He was just trying to give her the best life possible. Her hearing was slowly degrading as the years went on. It was a genetic thing, and not a lot could be done. She would need hearing aids by her late teens. By her mid twenties, she would be completely deaf.

Even now, he had to talk above normal volume.

Vash wanted her life to be filled with music and happiness until the very end. He would have to settle for giving her a rich foundation of memories. The weight of being a legal guardian seemed like such a curse, yet a blessing at the same time.


	23. Darkness Consumed Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter occurs over 2 years, from grade 8 to grade 10. Warnings for mentions of violence.

Rumors had a way of spreading very quickly in school. The news was juicier if they involved someone who had a reputation for getting into trouble. It was all he said, she said, with gross inaccuracies. The way the stories spread, ensured the gossip mills were cranking quickly.

Of course, the only people who knew what had _really_ happened were the ones involved. One of the emerging members of the goth crowd, Reese, had not turned up for classes for a few days now. The stories spread like wildfire. How she had dropped out, how she just quit completely. While most of the fake stories had little to no truth in them, there were some threads that rang true.

It was true she had run afoul of one of the thugs from the next city over. That was about it, really. Some even thought she was dead. Only the long-suffering History teacher, Professor Yao, knew better than that.

Meanwhile, another one of the involved students, one Laurence van den Berg, was spotted among the crowd of students. Anyone who came across his path gave him a wide berth. The rumors that involved Reese had him in it as well. In retaliation, his reaction to all this was to scowl at anyone who so much as dared looked at him.

Nobody knew why he had his forehead wrapped with bandages, and they didn't want to find out either. Any attempt at conversation was met with either a stony glare or a silent scowl. He didn't care to speak with anyone. 

_Well, anyone who wasn't Matthew Bonnefoy anyway._

The very same cinnamon roll of a teen was waiting for him after school, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet. He was just outside the school entrance with a smile.

Walking down the steps, Lars was relieved to be finally free of the stuffy air inside the brick building. Clearly the school had aged too well, smelling slightly of damp mildew. Spotting the wheaten blonde, he made his way over to the other.

'Did you wait long?' he inquired.

‘Yes. You should be in every class.’ Matthew greeted, squeezing Lars in an adoring hug after. He separated, almost giddy for Lars’s presence. ‘You want to take the really really long way home again?’ It was their tradition, ever since the official school separation, to walk home the most convoluted way possible together.

‘If there are any new ways to hold off going home as much as possible… let’s do it.’

Lars did not want to face what was awaiting him at home. Ever since the _incident_ , he had attempted to keep a low profile. The way that the rumor mills spread their gossip rendered that ineffective, forcing him to always be on his guard and ready to snap at whoever tried to talk to him that wasn’t a teacher, or Matthew.

‘To the mall!’ Matthew announced with with ASL flourish. Naturally, the mall was in the opposite direction of either boy’s house. They walked hand in hand, happy to exist near each other.

This was the only time they could spend together without having to worry if they were going to be late for school, because mornings were terrible and they always had to get there in a hurry. It was in the afternoons that both teenage boys felt truly alive, always thinking of ways to delay going home and facing their families.

Lars knew that his ‘parents’ were fed up with him coming home so close to dinner time, but he had his reasons. _“I was with Matthew, he needed help with his homework,”_ was his go-to reason. Of course, there really were times they would idle about actually doing a bit of the aforementioned schoolwork. This excuse was occasionally justified. Who knew that Mr. B was so nosy?! It was starting to grate on the salty teen, honestly.

Lars didn’t care that there were other people gaping at them, walking together but never exchanging a word. They minded their own business, and so should everyone else!

Before long, their convoluted path took them through the local park.

‘Want to go see the flowers?’ he asked Matthew innocently.

‘Sure. I don’t have money for the mall anyway.’ Matthew answered in turn, immediately holding Lars’s hand again. Matthew belonged there, and that was that. Not even nosy students could pry an answer out of the sweet boy as to why. He would only snarl at them in ASL. Questioning Lars was the only time Matthew was rude to any living creature.

‘Why do you never have money,’ he complained, before sighing. Unlike Matthew, he held onto his allowance like Death held onto its scythe. Only spending when absolutely necessary. Shrugging a bit, he then led the way into the park proper, making sure to stick to the shaded parts of the walkways. 

Matthew shrugged at the question. ‘Money goes away I guess.’

‘How do you even eat during lunch?!’ he exclaimed. Lars would always make and pack sandwiches… whenever either uncle Gilbert or Mr. B weren’t too busy commandeering the kitchen and making enough potato products to put the potato famine to shame. It was astounding, really, how adults _never_ got tired of the same dish every single day.

‘I have… do you want a sandwich?’ he asked the other once they had arrived near the flower gardens.

Matthew always ate Lars’s sandwiches. This was all a five year old tradition the boy considered special. “Okay.” With the sweetness of cherry pie, Matthew was eager for his tasty prize. A sandwich from Lars was more special than regular sandwiches, but the reason why eluded the freckled blonde.

‘I made several. Well, as many as I could,’ he said with a shrug as he opened his backpack and took out the plastic bag that normally held a sliced loaf of bread. Inside it were several sandwiches. He had to get rid of as much evidence as possible because the two adults at home were cleaning the fridge out again of ‘unhealthy’ food.

‘Nutella? Or peanut butter? Or would you want the extra-special one?’ he asked Matthew. There were several sandwiches inside. Some were a bit squished, but at least they held their form.

Matthew, once more torn by choice, loved sweets. He loved all these options. He loved that Lars gave him options at all. ‘Um, what’s the special one?’

‘Have you ever tried cookie butter?’ Lars asked, digging through the plastic bag and taking out the topmost one for himself, biting down on it and tasting Nutella. After searching around, he found the sandwich he was looking for and presented it to Matthew. ‘Try it.’

Matthew accepted the offering, taking a hungry bite out of it. Unaware he made such noises, he let out a low happy sound. After swallowing, he smiled brightly. “So good! You should have half, it’s only fair.”

'Oh no, I made that for you. You can have it,' Lars remarked as he gently pressed the sandwich back into Matthew's hands.

Matthew took another bite, so happy. So happy he might spill over or melt. Maybe the sun was getting to his brain. ‘We could eat over there.’ He gestured to a shady tree spot, absolutely picturesque with flowers. There was even a bench to sit on. Nothing could be more perfect.

With a shrug, Lars led the way to the bench, sneakily picking a few flowers along the way. He hoped Matthew could keep up with his long strides. Claiming an empty park bench under a shady tree was like reaching the final level of a video game and surviving the boss fight to watch the endgame credits. Benches in the park were hot commodities these days.

Arriving there first, Lars sprawled out and waited for Matthew to join him.

With another pleased bite of cookie butter tastiness, Matthew sat beside his best friend in the whole world. Matthew was much shorter than Lars right now. The taller tween was growing at insane rates. ‘How tall do you think you’ll get?'

'Hopefully not as tall as the doorway. That would suck,' Lars grumbled with a huff. He had to duck down sometimes when his line of sight met the top of smaller doors just to enter classrooms at times. He was becoming a beanpole. 'What about you? How tall do you think _you'll_ grow?' Lars returned the question to Matthew.

Matthew shrugged and snack attacked his divine cookie butter sandwich. ‘I don’t know. I like this height. I can fit here just like… perfect.’ He snuggled Lars’s side in demonstration, indeed a fine fit. This was even better than holding hands.

'So you'd rather be shorter forever then?' Lars teased back as he took a bite of his own Nutella sandwich. 'Fun-sized?' He added a few moments later.

Matthew puffed out his chest. ‘I’m all the fun... and I don’t yell like Al. Dad says he yells.”

'You're better off not hearing him yell. It's annoying to all hell. He sounds like a banshee,' Lars cackled, unable to resist taking a pot shot at the emerging Drama Club wannabe king. Although that made him sad for a few moments, because he realized that Matthew would never hear _his own voice._

For some strange reason that upset Lars greatly. Yet he didn't know why that was so. Rolling his shoulders slightly, he then presented the small handful of flowers to Matthew.

'Figured you would like these,' he went on after an awkward silence, holding the small bunch of flowers for the other to take.

Matthew pressed the mix of orange tulips, roses, and carnations to his face and inhaled. He knew they were ripped out of random public flower beds but he didn’t care. The scent was a promise of something greater, a promise Matthew was too young to grasp. ‘I love them so much. Thank you.’

There was a happy bliss as they munched on sandwiches. When food was destroyed, Matthew brought up something that was bothering him deeply. ‘Elise told me, she heard you did a bad thing… is this true?’

Now it felt like he was being scrutinized. Lars squirmed uncomfortably where he sat. _Shit._ Just _how far_ had the rumor mills been spreading havoc? For someone like _Elise_ , of _all_ people, to hear about that? What the hell?!

'W-w-what exactly have you heard?' Lars asked Matthew tentatively. He was sweating like a criminal on trial. Shit. _Shit, shit, shit, shit!_ Just _how much_ did Matthew know?!

Matthew set down the beautiful flowers, twiddling his thumbs. Finally he looked up with a soul melting look of concern. Oh god. Those violet eyes were like lie detector machines. ‘I heard you hurt someone, for real hurt them.’

That made him freeze up and look away. Lars didn't want to talk about it. Not right now, when they were enjoying their time away from society. 'How… how about we talk about something else instead?' He attempted to deflect. Oh, crap.

Matthew looked away, frowning. ‘So it’s true then. You hurt someone bad.’ There was a moment of tension as Lars sweat like a criminal on trial. His anxiety was dismissed as easily as it was summoned.

Matthew resumed cuddling Lars’s side endearingly. ‘I’m not mad at you. I know you. I know Lars van den Berg. You did it for a reason.’ Taking Lars’s arm, he wrapped it around himself in comfort. Who could resist that blushy face?

'I… would rather not talk about it,' Lars signed, still unable to look at Matthew. Damnit. Why did he have to pull off the angelic begging face so naturally, and why was he so easily affected by it?! 'Let's just… enjoy this time we have together.'

If only fate would let them have this peace. Matthew’s phone could be heard vibrating away in the front of his backpack. He seemed to forget it there often.

Lars, however, heard the buzzing noise and poked Matthew, alerting him to the front pocket of his backpack. 'Mattie? Uh… I think your phone's going bananas,' he gestured, yawning slightly.

Mattie rolled his eyes, but made himself part enough to grab the device. Returning to Lars’s touch, he scrolled through a storm of messages. All of them were from Dad.

_Boy, where are you?_

_You better not be with that Lars fellow. He’s in bad trouble._

_I’m not making this up, mister. He cut another teen. Cut him. Answer me._

_ANSWER ME are you in danger?_

_Say something if you’re hurt or in trouble!_

_MATTHEW!_

The messages went on and on, now coming in from his Papa. Alfred was in the mix as well. Matthew set the phone face down. It was still buzzing. ‘Lars, we’re in trouble.’

'What? What do you mean?' he asked Matthew. 'What kind of trouble?'

‘My dads know about the fight or whatever you had. They’re looking for us. We have to… get moving… We have to go somewhere. I can’t… I won’t let them do anything,’ Matthew was panicking between gestures, now shoving his things hurriedly in his bag.

'What?'

It was the only thing he could gesture. Looking around, the park was quiet. Too quiet. Like the birds had stopped singing. How did Matthew's parents find out about this?! What the fuck?!

'Come on… let's go!' Lars gestured quickly, stuffing the rest of the uneaten sandwiches and the handful of flowers into Matthew's bag before standing up and slinging his own backpack on his shoulders. 'We have to run!' he added a few moments later, his own panic overtaking his rational thoughts.

Uncle Gilbert’s red sports car was spotted parking on the street, the albino and Mr. B appearing from within. They were talking with each other as they approached sternly. Matthew was shaking with anxiety, Dad’s car visibly closing in.

Unknowingly, Lars grabbed Matthew's hand and tore down through the paths in a sprint, his long legs cutting very quick strides through the area. There were several exits they could take, but where could they go after this?! The cars were alarmingly quick, closing in on them like a vise.

'Move!' He signed one-handed to Matthew, cutting his way through a small crowd of teenagers on roller skates, trying to get to one of the farther exits of the park they were in. Matthew struggled to keep pace, panting hard and warbling anxious noises.

Gilbert was a juggernaut, the pinnacle of fitness for his age. He could not be stopped. He did not waver, a soldier of cruel fate. Lars was tackled to the pavement, locked in an expert arm bar.

 _“Resisting proves your guilt, little bratwurst,”_ the uncle growled in German, knowing full well the other understood him.

Matthew wailed, weakly trying to pry Lars up. He was no match for the powerful ex-military man. Arthur was closing in, a red faced mess of panic.

Lars didn't know what hit him before he crashed into pavement.

 _"Don't talk to me in that godforsaken language!"_ he shouted back, but in Dutch. _"Get off me, uncle Gilbert!"_ he cried out, squirming as he attempted to throw the albino off him. _"Matthew! Run!"_ he shouted at the wheaten blonde, forgetting that he was deaf due to the panic that had overtaken him. He sincerely hoped Matthew could read lips. The more he tried to shove the albino off his back, the more pressure he felt on his arm.

 _"God, are you trying to dislocate my arm?!"_ He kept shouting in Dutch, unaware he was doing it. _"Let me go!"_ he cried out, still attempting to throw the favored parental unit off him. He didn't realize the cut on his forehead was bleeding again until his right eye twitched at the sticky sensation running down his face. _"Ugh, ow…"_ he whined, still thrashing like a trapped animal.

Arthur pulled his child away from Lars, looking on the verge of angry tears. He didn’t speak. He couldn’t speak, so terrified for his offspring. Lars, despite his wild thrashing, was gagged and hog-tied by Gilbert with sturdy rope. The pale German was exuding soldier authority to a tee, as if Lars was… the enemy.

“I, Gilbert Beilchmidt, am placing you under civillian’s arrest. You have the right to…” As Gilbert rattled off memorized legal codes for Canada, there was still intense emotion to be found in ruby eyes. It was pure raging hurt, sharp and accusing.

Matthew was being dragged away by his frightened English father, gesturing madly broken assurances. Even Lars knew they were false.

Lars wanted to scream, but try as he might he couldn't shout around the gag that had been stuffed into his mouth. There was anger in his eyes, too, as he could 'read' what Matthew's adoptive father was telling him. He wanted to shout that whatever he was being told was a big, fat lie, but his own hands had been tied behind him, and he knew that Matthew couldn't hear him no matter how loud he yelled.

The ride to the Guelph Police Station was mostly silent. Despite how pissed Gilbert was, he still buckled the teen in the back seat with care. Mr. B was driving, looking red-eyed from faint crying. He said nothing as Uncle Gilbert drilled the gagged teen mercilessly. It was cutting and cold, a side Lars had never seen ever.

“Did stabbing that asshole make you happy, Laurence? Was it for attention? What did we do that you hate so much, you had to go commit crime!?” Gilbert berated in chilling tone.

Much as Lars wanted to shout back, he couldn't. He was reduced to glaring the albino down. He didn't know what _really_ happened! Who was he to assume?! He could only glare angrily at the favored uncle, the gag in his mouth making it a bit difficult to talk back.

“It doesn’t matter. You didn’t turn yourself in at the time. You broke the law! You broke my trust! Did you even think? Did you ever stop to consider how you would affect other people’s lives!?” The drill sergeant was not to be defied.

“Please… stop. It won’t change anything.” Mr. B’s voice was broken and wet with emotion. While Gilbert had turned to rage, Ludwig had collapsed into genuine sorrow. The Guelph police station was coming into view.

“It’s not about you anymore, Laurence. You’ll drag that boy down with you. Matthew would follow you to hell, and you know it. Is that what you want, the two of you as prison buddies for twenty years? You know what they do to men in prison!? They rape them, _constantly_!” Gilbert’s last fuming rage brought forth a truth, and a crushing one at that.

“ **That’s enough, Gil.** ” Mr. B’s word was final, a few tears trailing down a cheek. Gilbert silenced, finally.

Lars was still gagged. How was he going to answer back to all of this?! The only thing he could do was glare at the two as the car came to a stop and he was unceremoniously hauled out to meet his fate.

What happened next was terrifying for Lars. He had to face the music. At the same time he had to spend time behind bars. It was enough to set his blood aflame. Why were they so insistent on all this?!

The only consolation here was that he had an entire cell to himself. But that even had problems, too. For one thing, it was cold. There was also another hitch in the fact that he wasn't even allowed to use the bathroom. Was he going to have to pee in a cup?!

The bedding was the last straw. Just a poor excuse for a foam mattress and no pillow. This was where he spent most of his time, not even allowed to do his homework for the next day. Instead of pacing around, he curled up like a hedgehog on the 'bed', glaring at the other people being held in cells across from where he was detained.

All the while, his thoughts were with Matthew. What lies was he being told at this very moment? How bad was his anxiety? He knew that the other took a long while to calm down after a panic attack…

Unable to calm down, Lars eventually settled in for what would be the worst night of his life. He wasn't going to let the loud heckling and jeering coming from the other cells get to him, no.

All he could focus on at that moment was Matthew.

And then, he cried.

Quietly, of course. Nothing to draw too much attention to him. He was stuck here, the possibility of never seeing Matthew, or anyone else he knew again, weighing down on him as he wedged himself into a tight ball, blotting out everything as best as his frazzled mind would allow.

How long had he been here? He had lost track, really. Without a watch or any contact with the outside world, it was very easy to lose track of things. After what felt like an eternity, Lars thought he heard something sliding open and shut, as well as approaching footsteps.

It was only then that he registered the familiar, sing-song accent of his history teacher, Professor Yao.

"Come on, I take you out of here, _Xiaomei_ tell me everything that happen," the perpetually-tired Chinese man addressed his way, waiting for him to stand up.

"Xiao...mei?" He mumbled, his voice hoarse. Looking up from his stupor, he saw a very familiar face following the History teacher. Only he didn't know her as Xiaomei, he knew her as…

_"Reese?"_

There was Reese, all black lace, anti-establishment logos, and thick eyeliner. “Hi.” she greeted quietly. “Are you ready to leave?”

"Am I… is this…?" he mumbled, blinking as he shook his head. "I thought… they were going to leave me here."

"Your parents over dramatic," Yao continued, sighing again as he rubbed the side of his forehead. He wanted another smoke, _badly._

“Come on. Let’s get out of here,” Reese offered a hand after an officer opened the cell door.

He was still shaking as he took the offered hand and got onto his feet, trembling slightly as he unfolded his tall frame from the ball he had curled up into and followed them out of the holding cell.

_Never again._

Mr. B and Uncle Gil had never gone far in this long process. They allowed Lars to be bailed out in the first place. They were still beyond pissed though. Lars was due to return to school the day after today, education his only escape from eternal grounding. 

Everyone was scared to shit of Lars upon his return. Rumours had spun completely out of control. It was lunch time, and only one person dared approach him. It was Leon, looking douchey as usual. He even popped the collar of his shirt like a tool.

"...what do _you_ want?" Lars mumbled in the Chinese boy's direction before turning his attention back to the sorry state of his lunch tray.

Leon didn’t look happy to be here, yet filled with purpose. He held a steaming bowl of something delicious in his hands. “You saved my sister from that Spanish prick… so I’m here to make peace. I won’t bully Matthew ever again.” He cringed at the cheesy moment, but swallowed his pride.

“Reese made this. She heard you like ramen,” Leon set the bowl down, eager to end the uncomfortable social encounter.

"You swear on that, then?" Was all Lars could say, because the smell of the ramen was too delicious to ignore. Poking at the tray for a few more moments, he finally shoved it aside and slid the bowl closer to him.

“Yes! On family’s honour!” Leon spat impatiently.

 _You don't sound like it, but whatever,_ Lars thought in the back of his mind. "Send her my thanks," he added quietly.

 _So much for that,_ Lars thought privately. He watched the Chinese boy run off to join his fellow sports team losers. Turned his attention to the bowl in front of him, Lars ate quietly. The fresh ramen was delightful.

After lunch, it was time to find Matthew.

Only… he wasn't having any luck. Even if he knew that they had no classes together, he still had to look for the wheaten blonde and 'talk' to him.

Alfred was the only kid not running away from Lars. He was with Ivan, predictably, as they exited a shared history class. Upon seeing Lars, Ivan’s face was stone.

Lars didn't care much for the Russian's expression, as he turned right to Alfred.

"Where's Matthew? Have you seen him?" He bluntly inquired to the loudmouth blonde.

“You can’t see him anymore.” Alfred was plain and blunt, not attempting his usual charm.

"What do you mean I can't see him anymore?" Lars pressed on, not letting the issue drop until he got a straight answer. "Answer me!"

Alfred shrugged. “It’s out of my hands, but you can’t see him anymore. Like _ever_.”

"What are you talking about?! What… _what lies did your father tell him about me?!_ " Lars snarled back, his patience worn down and thin from all this fuckery. **_"Tell me!"_ **He yelled.

“Dude! I don’t know! Yelling at me won’t make me know! Buzz off!” Alfred bristled just as ready for battle.

Ivan stepped in between them, cold as winter. “We have to go to math, Fedya.” He spoke calmly.

Alfred took a deep breath. “Yeah dude. Let’s go.” They started walking away.

 **_"Don't turn away from me! You haven't answered my question!"_ **Lars all but screamed at the blonde. He knew that Alfred was very possibly hiding something from him about Matthew.

Alfred didn’t take the bait, turning around a corner. Damn him to hell too!

 **_"Get back here, you coward!"_ ** He snapped, spooking several younger students at the sound of his voice. _"What do you want? Leave me alone!"_ He snapped, stomping down the corridor in the opposite direction.

Two weeks had passed since his time in that awful cell. Found to be a defender in a crime and not a perpetrator, Lars was let out after a period of holding. This did little to calm Uncle Gilbert. No more games or real freedom was allowed. The uncle’s icy rage didn’t last forever though.

It was a horrible awkward dinner, with barely any conversation. “Can you pass the cheese sticks?” Lars asked stiffly, aware he was an outsider now. Gilbert grabbed the bowl without a word, handing it over. He couldn’t let go of the dish.

“You can have… all the cheese sticks you want,” He muttered, out of character from the last few days. Puzzled, Lars watched his uncle fall apart.

Gilbert got out of his chair, setting down the food. Instead, he pulled Lars into an unwilling crushing hug. “You can have all the cheese sticks you want, little bratwurst.”

“Uncle Gil? My ribs… I…”

The emotion riddled German was as frazzled as any overwhelmed man could be. “Don’t scare us like that ever again, little bratwurst.” Despite how ridiculous the man was being, it was a relief to know Lars was still loved.

“You’re still grounded, but we love you,” Mr. B reflected the sentiment. Claude smiled softly, not saying a thing. Leanne kind of paid attention for once, only half on her phone. It was a big gesture for her.

Sure, he could take uncle Gilbert crushing him in a hug like that. But Mr. B was an entirely _different_ monster altogether. Suddenly, he didn't want to eat anymore.

"I… I'm full," he abruptly mentioned, standing up and leaving the table. Not too long afterward, the sound of a slamming door echoed through the ceiling.

The next few weeks passed slowly. Lars was stuck in an endless cycle of being brought to school by his uncle Gilbert and being picked up right at the end of the day. The cut on his forehead had finally healed up, however it left a permanent scar on the right side of his forehead.

Classes were the same old monotonous shit. Only the social situation changed. Reese’s crew had adopted Lars overnight, inviting him to bizarre goth activities. Walking in graveyards was hardly Lars’s idea of fun, but it was nice they thought of him.

Lukas was the newest addition to Lars’s monotonous shithole life. The company was welcome after the isolation of being grounded. Matthew was still impossible to contact. Mr. Bonnefoy and Mr. Kirkland wouldn’t even let him in the door anymore. Lars tried for several days to visit Matthew's house, however at the last attempt he was threatened with a restraining order courtesy of Mr. Kirkland if he wouldn't stop coming over.

This left Lars hanging out with Reese's group of friends, led by Lukas. Mostly they congregated at some unknown corner of the school. They often visited one of the senior goth's houses for dark poetry reading sessions, and equally dark music.

Today's visit was over the house of a very studded and pierced senior named Andrew. Most of the girls congregated in the living room for another poetry-reading session. Lukas pulled Lars off to one side.

"Honestly. I have been thinking of how to thank you. I think I know how to do that," Lukas mused. “You saved Reese and that’s really cool.” All of this was spoke in the coolest way possible of course. Lukas was basically the current king of the school, but _cooler_.

"And what’s that?" Lars inquired. He found it hard to believe that Lukas's father was their goofball of a Physical Education teacher. "What do you have in mind?"

"Are you afraid of needles?" Lukas asked him, very direct. Lars was alarmed at the offer, wondering if they did drugs of some sort.

"Depends on what kind. Are we talking… heroin here?" Lars treaded carefully. "Or some other kind of shit that I'm unaware of?"

At this sentiment, Lukas let out a snort. "Hell no, Lars. Don't compare us to the crackheads. I was talking about _these,_ " and with these words, the older boy took off his jacket to reveal ink drawn on skin.

_Tattoos._

Ooh. That would really show Mr. B.

Lars put on a shit disturbing smirk, determined to get along with his new tribe of sorts. Besides. Tattoos were awesomely cool. Even Uncle Gilbert thought as much. The guy was covered in them. Lars saw gilbert’s body art in the summer months, a literal canvas.

"Where did you get them? Who made yours?" Lars asked. He was _determined_ to set himself apart from his siblings. Getting under his adoptive father's skin was motivating, in more ways than one.

“Tino. That guy is the coolest.” Lukas was so secure in this knowledge, arms crossed with confidence. The name was kinda familiar… almost like…

“Tino. The um… groundskeeper’s boyfriend?” Lars recalled distant memories of forced work for the guy. Berwald was harmless enough, even if the part-time landscaper’s English was horrendous.

“Husband, but yeah. Tino is totally metal. He did this!” Lukas showed off his latest tattoo, barring his untanned arm. While Lars didn't understand the imagery behind it, all he knew that there were two… birds? What was this supposed to mean?

"That's ridiculously detailed," Lars pointed out. "How long did it take before this was completed?"

Lukas smirked. “The first phase took three weeks to heal, but the second was all the details. Totally metal.” The very Nordic looking designs were pretty neat on his arm.

"There _is_ a level of detail with the birds, I'll admit. How many tattoos do you have?" Lars asked, excited at the prospect. How much did he want to piss off Mr. B? Quite a bit. "Are those… you have piercings too?"

Lukas looked away, not as open about the subject. “Enough. Let’s get you inked, man! We can get a discount.” He was more chipper about the change of subjects.

The leather chair was not comfortable enough to justify what was going on. Lars was getting stabbed by a fucking crazy needle machine was what. He was half way through his first tattoo ever, and he was starting to think it was his last.

“So, what does this tattoo mean to you?” The artist asked as he did his thing. Tino was very metal indeed, right down to his metal ear spikes. All this and he couldn’t be more friendly.

"It's… ow, crap. Look, it means something important to me, it's the official translation of the French motto on my birth country's coat of arms. In-in English," Lars tried to explain, gritting his teeth through the pain, "...it means 'I uphold'."

Was this _really_ going to be his last? Now that he thought about it, he wanted… more of this. But he had to grit his teeth through this first one and see it through!

“Great choice. I did the world tree ages ago on my back. It’s a spiritual thing isn’t it, like… finding what you really believe and sticking to it. You know, you could get the lion to go with it. Right above the heart, the symbolism would be intense.” Tino was absolutely in love with his work, it was clear.

"You have the World Tree?!" Lars exclaimed, teeth gritting after. He knew how insane the detailing on that was, it was probably going to be Lukas's next tattoo. Either that, or runes of some sort.

"I want it in color. Can you do colored ink?" Lars went on. He was _ready_ to shell out for this.

“I can do any animal. It’s my specialty, along with any runic stuff.” Tino was ever so pleased to see another convert. He paused his work to dab the arm free of sparing blood. There was less than Lars expected but christ, it still hurt.

“We’re gonna give your skin five minutes to relax, then I’ll finish this up. Almost done man. You want a drink or some cookies or something?” Curse Tino for being so damn nice in this moment of burning pain.

"Are you crazy, man?!" Lukas called from the next room over. "You want a tattoo done in _colour_?!"

"W-what?! It looks nice!" Lars shouted back, asking for some water and taking a look at the handiwork on his right wrist. Even if it didn't resemble his own handwriting, he had to admit, it looked really cool.

"I'm telling you now, monochrome is still better!" Lukas shouted from the other room. He was already picking out details for his _next_ tattoo.

“He’s a brother in ink now. You should respect his wisdom.” Tino hummed, bringing an ice cold glass of water.

“You’re an enabler and you know it, Tino!” Lukas argued in petty fashion right back.

Lars couldn't help but laugh at the exchange between the two. "How long has he been getting ink from you?" He inquired curiously as he drank the water. He was pretty certain Lukas had more than just the two birds on his arm. He thought he saw the snaking tendrils of something on the older boy's neck, hidden by several layers of clothing. "You do piercings, too?"

“I did a religious thing he wanted way back… then he started getting real money. So he’s my obnoxious little art canvas now. It helps that I used to be his babysitter. He used to be so cute in his giant shirts and…”

 _ **“STOP EMBARRASSING ME IN FRONT OF MY PEOPLE!”**_ Lukas yelled.

Tino merely chuckled. “He hasn’t changed a bit.”

The mental image of a younger Lukas made Lars snort in laughter, almost spitting out the water he just drank. "Hard to imagine he was innocent when he was younger," he added with a chuckle.

“Jean overalls, and this obsession with moose... Mooses… whatever. Like how big they could get. It wowed him. Then I showed him my slayer albums. The cutest little metal head you ever saw.” Tino could not be stopped, spewing dirt about Lukas as he resumed tattoo details. Lukas made dying noises a room over, miserable.

It helped that Lars had something to focus on as he felt the needle jabbing into his skin again. Even if it was painful, it was _definitely_ worth it. Who knew that Lukas Køhlerson used to be big on large animals when he was a kid?! The mental imagery helped him through the pain, Lars unable to resist snorting as Tino continued sharing the dirt on one of his favorite clients.

Towards the end, Lars was not looking great. He was warned a wrist tattoo was almost as painful as a hand tattoo. The distracting conversation took a sour turn.

“So what’s up with that kid you hang out with? You two are usually glued together. It’s adorable.”

That made Lars frown, his eyebrows meeting as he cringed at the crass way the question was presented. Still…

He let out a tiny little sigh.

"Something happened. Can I l-leave it there?" He answered quietly. The pain was still raw inside him. The last… many years of his life had been brightened by an angel of a friend, and now the world was darker.

As another person of intensity, Tino nodded in knowing. He didn’t need to say another word on the subject. “So. Your Dutch lion, you gonna do it?”

"Can I get it done now? Or do I have to wait some time for this one to heal first?" He asked. Clearly he was thankful for the topic change and latched onto it easily.

“Sorry, but I have another client in an hour. I’d love to go over design ideas with you before he arrives though.” Tino was not remorseful about his new ink addict at all. “I have a whole heraldry based book we can pick over.”

"That would be fantastic," Lars agreed.


	24. Spiral And Crash

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mattie's side of the time period from last chapter.

Things had not been terrible four years ago. Matthew was happy, fulfilled in some intangible sense that was no longer possible. A piece of his heart was now missing, and it hurt like a seeping infected wound. It had never stopped bleeding, never healing. The reason why was as clear as day.

Lars abandoned him.

At first this cruel circumstance was merely an accident of institutionalization. The school had a new principal. This principal thought it was just dandy to organize each grade by last name. Kitchener being such a multicultural place, there was an abundance of names to be had. The gap between Laurence van den Berg and Matthew Bonnefoy was established, a black dark stone beginning the growing wedge.

Matthew started grade six poorly, his learning slogged by misunderstandings. He had to dodge bullies, lacking his once established knight. He struggled to keep up with lessons, not having Lars to catch the verbal lectures. Matthew dealt with sitting alone tolerably.

This was all acceptable, almost alright, due to the bounty after such suffering. Lars and Matthew walked to school every single day. Matthew's young life rotated around these mornings. They would walk hand in hand, blissful before they were torn apart once more. After the hell that was school, they reunited like magnets.

They walked home slowly, holding out for as long as they could. Playing in passing parks, they would laugh. Going past shops, The boys would peer in windows. Matthew's most favourite time came to an end eventually. It always did. They would always have to part on Matthew's porch, with long sign language chats to drag out the separation.

In grade six and seven, this all became the norm. School teachers were irritated. The parental roles on both sides were always annoyed. Matthew didn't care, the price was worth it. The happy children often followed each other home, never parting at all. Matthew and Lars savoured every hour they had like a delicacy. Scores of clothing were exchanged in this manner. When stuck alone without his loyal knight, Matthew took to wearing Lars's shirts, draping the fabric over his face. It was all a weak attempt to simulate Lars being with him. It rarely worked.

It was a vast understatement to say homework was neglected. In all the post school absconding, external tensions were beginning to build. It weighed down on the only time the boys cherished, threatening to crack the dream like thin glass.

Grade eight was the final hammer blow, destroying everything. Lars had to get caught up in that knife fight, slashing apart their future together. Matthew just wanted to hold his Lars forever, keep him safe from the dangers. This couldn't happen, since the centre of Matthew's world was gone.

Three hours. That was how long Matthew first waited after their separation. Lars never showed in the usual spot. Dad was serious about him not seeing Lars, it seemed. Dad was smart and truthful, yet how could Lars be a bad influence? He was the only friend Matthew had.

Papa himself appeared on stubborn days, removing the confused child from Lars’s old meeting place. Three times Matthew was forcibly removed by his parents, all with the same questions and outrage. They didn’t understand what was lost.

It was the third time that was the most embarrassing. It was a cruel Thursday, cool autumn rain pouring down. Anticipating a repeat of the previous two days, Dad was already there in the car. It was a newer model, the old blue Sedan traded in. This vehicle was sleek and black, shiny with rain. A window rolled down, Dad looking very displeased within.

‘Get in the car.’ Dad signed, insistent and angular as always.

‘No! I'm waiting for Lars.’ Matthew denied instantly, uncaring if he was cold and soaked to the bone.

‘Get in the car right this instant, or I'll... Don't you ignore me!’ The sandy blonde argued back. Matthew turned his back to the man, a powerful gesture. He knew exactly how rude it was to do this in ASL, the equivalent of flipping someone the bird.

Arthur, looking furious, grabbed his son from behind and turned him around. ‘Don't dare be so flippant with me!’ he scolded loosely. ‘Why are you so possessed with waiting here!?’

‘Lars always meets me here. It's really important!’ Matthew protested, not cooperative in the least.

‘You can't see him anymore. He's a very bad influence.’

‘No! I'll see him and you can't stop me!’ The preteen was digging in his heels now, unwilling to so much as move in the foul weather.

‘Matthew…’ Dad's signing relaxed in posture, giving off a casual personal tone now. ‘My boy, your friend is in a lot of trouble. He's running with the wrong crowds, he's... he's dangerous. I know you two are close. I don't want him dragging you down to his level. That's all. I want you to be safe. You're my little snowflake, remember?’

Matthew's first memories of winter, white and cold. Being safe in his new Dad's arms after the wedding to Papa. His little snowflake to keep. The boy's hard stance drooped. He didn't have an intimidating bone in his body, and Dad knew this. ‘Yes... I guess.’

‘How about we get you home and dry.’ At this offer, Matthew only shrugged. Feeling strangely weak in a new wave of emotion, the preteen finally gave into his chills. He was feeling run down as it was. The ride home was jilted and awkward, Matthew not knowing what to communicate.

Never again did Matthew wait for Lars. The chaperones at the bus lines were clued in now. Without fail, Matthew was pushed onto his bus ride home. He never had a chance to get away. It was now a world without Lars, for worse... or worse. He wasn't allowed to visit Lars. Matthew wasn't allowed to communicate with him over texts. Absolutely no interaction was granted.

Life in misery was a funny thing. It took over like faint insidious disease. At first you were merely upset. That was certainly healthy, being emotional and distraught. However, you still had to function. You had to dress, eat, clean up, do homework... many things. Matthew had to swallow his sadness at least a little to get through a day. He had to slap on a shallow smile once in a while, to skip all the damn questions. A guy had to get from point A to B sometimes, with no messy interactions.

That was where the infection started. It was a slow numbing, a dirty emotional callous on his soul. Striving to keep up appearances, Matthew relied on the new defence. He was numb to school, but his marks looked average. Average marks meant no questions. There were hard questions the grieving preteen couldn't begin to answer. Life was infinitely more hollow, to be sure.

The emotional numbness spread into his fingers, his heart, his dreams. His clothing was a front. His polite communications were crafted lies. His hair, his practised expression, they were all engineered to deflect attention. Attention meant revealing the truth. The truth was an ugly thing, grimy and dark as it consumed Matthew's soul.

More than a year had passed since the police incident. Lars was gone, had been for the entire time. Regardless of how bad an influence he might have been... It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. It all culminated in a big steaming pile of nothing.

Six months ago Matthew finally realized how disconnected he was. It was an accidental discovery, at the cusp of a new school year. Grade nine was supposed to be different, more momentous. Hormones and life changes were abound for the hapless Matthew Bonnefoy. All these things, Papa and Dad promised. There was a catch, naturally.

The catch was that Matthew didn't care at all. He poked his vegetables, barely paying attention. Most dinners he was like this, distant and wanting.

‘Matthew, don't you agree?’ Papa gestured at him, catching his scant attention.

‘What?’ Matthew replied, confused.

‘Are you okay? You've barely touched dinner.’ Dad asked, green eyes sharp and observant. Nothing ever escaped his jaded wisdom.

‘I'm nervous about the new school year. New students, new possible friends. I mean, grade ten right?’ Matthew was lying through his hands. Lying like a politician, like a movie star. Matthew didn't care about anything anymore, and it was honestly terrifying. Nothing felt real, like being numbed by chemicals.

Dad seemed to take this false information well, not suspecting a thing. His burning intelligence was turned away once more, luckily led astray. ‘Well, it's natural to be nervous. This will be your year. I'm sure of it.’

‘Thanks Dad.’ Matthew replied, robotic once more. Papa was not convinced in the slightest, but merely furrowed his brows and glanced away. It was only a ripple of a storm brewing. Dad and Papa were going to fight soon, and this was the precursor. They rarely fought over Matthew, a couple born of nitpicking and exchanged quips. It was clear their disabled son would be today's subject.

Matthew and Alfred pushed away their plates in unison, understanding what was to occur. Alfred waved goodbye, pretending to receive a text. It was an effective and common tactic. Matthew proceeded to do the same, pointing to his empty phone screen in facially prompted question.

‘It's okay, you can go.’ Papa answered, shooting Dad a stern look. Dad meanwhile, had his own non sign language protests, silent to Matthew's cold gaze. He took the opening offered, heading straight to his room.

Matthew's room was in the simplest terms, disgusting. He loved it, how it reflected what was left of his soul. A distorted jungle of rotting laundry, self loathing, and death poetry. No less than four locks were installed on the door, securing this constructed hell. The once loving space was corrupted over time. Matthew deserved this crap, this destruction.

He wasn't strong enough to survive the bullies. He wasn't smart enough to keep notes and read lips at the same time. He wasn't brave enough to defy Dad. The man was a force to be reckoned with, beyond the teen’s capability to defy.

Matthew let go of the best thing in the world and it was his damn fault. He had meekly given up Laurence van den Berg, playing the role of a good boy. Lars probably hated him for giving up so easily. It was pathetic. That was why he avoided Matthew at school.

There was no light left in his life. Matthew locked up the door tight, collapsing on his squalor infested bed. Perhaps the only thing in this room that was washed was five very special shirts. They were the last of a golden era, priceless treasures. They were the last of Lars's clothes from two years ago.

Matthew frequently slept in them for comfort. There was once seven shirts and two pants, but the collection was frayed and dying. Desperate to feel anything, Matthew took off his grey long sleeve and absently threw it aside. Pulling one of the five sacred shirts over ghostly white skin, the fabric was dragged over Matthew's face. The fuzz barren fabric had long lost it's scent, holes beginning to form.

The stifling numbness that killed his spirit and libido would not cease. Matthew still felt absolutely nothing. He had never been comfortable with this void of emotion. He suspected one was not supposed to be this way. Matthew had tried climbing great heights to scare himself to normal. He had held his breath underwater for a long time to shock his body. Nothing was working. He was dead inside.

Matthew had seen other teens cutting themselves in bathrooms, or indulging in mindless sex as young as sixteen. The wheaten blonde still didn't know what to think of the thriving drug scene, the underbelly of high school life. All of these vices were methods of control, one goth told him during a break period.

Control was something the blonde hungered for. The dangerous sex was impossible, considering it was difficult for Matthew to get hard at all. More specifically, sex with strangers seemed like a sure way to catch a disease. Drugs had a similar risk assessment. Not all the options were dismissed.

Making certain the door was locked, the thin teen felt around between his mattress and box spring. A small plastic case, ever so sterile and new, was retrieved. It was stolen from the principal's office, recently seized from an anorexic girl's locker. It was dangerous, small, easy to conceal. It was a cutting kit. Hopeful for relief from the grey nothing that smothered, Matthew swiped it days ago.

He had attempted to cut himself yesterday, but failed. Numb fingers wouldn't stop trembling and dropping the tiny razors. Holy shit, was he really going to do this? Matthew was drawn tight and about to tear. Between lying to his parents, struggling in school, and living in social isolation... He needed something to cope. He needed to stop thinking of Lars van den Berg, because it was killing him.

With unsteady breath, he opened the black case. Inside was a fresh razor, looking clean as always. Bandages and blood cleaner took up the rest of the space. Matthew plucked the razor up with nimble fingers. Where to cut, how deep to press?

The wrists seemed like the most idiotic place to start. That was like advertising your distress on a billboard. Upper arms was used to often, it would reopen constantly. The torso was too important, full of vital organs. This left the neck, once against a stupid choice, and the legs.

_The legs._

Inspired, Matthew set the razor aside. Kicking off his jeans, he sat once more. With even grip, the narrow razor was set against milky white thighs. He could really tell he wasn't eating enough now, the meaty heft of times past missing from his frame. That was supposed to be scary, but it wasn't.

The deed was done, fast and clean on the inner thigh. A shallow swipe left a beading trail of blood, emerging from the reddening wound. A swift exhale of pain ripped out of his body. It sung of burning pain, throbbing and hurting. This was all terrible, beautifully terrible like a train crash. That was the wonder of it all.

It was all this pain, this awfulness, in a definable form. It was something Matthew could identify, cause, and stop. In this ugly moment, after years of suffering, he finally had control. There was no doubt, in the rush of this moment. He would cut again.

The school year progressed in a dry numb haze. Matthew was in grade ten now, the first school day almost here. It was increasingly obvious that the world was an uncontrollable pile of crap. Nothing made sense most of the time. The urge to escape and seek refuge had increased terribly, beyond any capacity Matthew could fill. He turned to dizzying heights, cigarettes, extreme food control, and poetry for relief.

Kitchener was so beautiful from this view. Slightly north of the budding city by twenty minutes, the teen was incredibly isolated. From his current position, the darkening world spilled out before him like green carpeting. The wind was sturdy today, tugging at his rail thin body.

Matthew was far more stubborn, almost fifteen storeys above the earth. He was good and anchored into the radio tower's triangular struts. The blonde was so sure of himself, he was secured entirely by his legs. His hands were currently full. In one hand, was a can of pressurized whipped cream. In the other hand, a cigarette. It was almost a nub, glowing fainting like an orange star.

It was becoming the only light, along with the dazzling glitter of street lamps. The heart of Kitchener was in the distance, amber with light pollution. Stubbing the smoke dead, it was flicked into the inky sea of shadow below. The sun finished setting, which was still a noteworthy hour. Dad would be righteously pissed if Matthew didn't return before seven most evenings.

The salty lawyer's efforts at parenting were amusingly futile. Alfred had been a little monster and nabbed a bit of dark poetry from Matthew's room. It was circulated around the school like a cheap tabloid. Most didn't take it seriously, or assumed the roaming goth kids did it. Alfred and his fat mouth had to share this fun discovery at family dinner.

Yes, that family dinner. The once optional one, that now seemed to be martial law. The same goddamn dinner every night, with the same stupid smiling faces... It was always the pandering yet pressing questions. An identical routine, worn and practised like old gloves.

_‘How was your day boys?’_

_‘Did you do all your homework?’_

_‘Is everything doing okay?’_

These questions were not for sunny perfect Alfred. Popular Alfred, a girl on each arm. Alfred was the saint, the good boy jock. Lord of sports, leader of drama class, and up and coming debate team captain. Alfred was lovable royalty, untouchable on his golden throne. Only Ivan was bold enough to tear the boy king down from time to time. Alfred honestly needed it.

This was the reason that inane dinner questions were geared at Matthew's secret life. Papa was more invasive than ever before. He violated the filthy landscape of his son's room when ants were spotted in the hall. All door locks were removed. All death poetry was disposed of after likely being analyzed. Mountains of laundry were banished and cleaned.

The parental authorities were closing in fast. Matthew felt choked by the formidable opposition. All he wanted to do was be sad in peace, swimming in his depression devised hell. He didn't care anymore, and that was all there was to say. With Dad and Papa playing bad cop in waltzing tandem, this might be his last night of freedom. The thought was a sobering one.

Matthew looked down the metal skeleton of the radio tower, to the now black ground. He had never been afraid of heights, with perfect balance. Fifteen stories stretched between him and the earth. That was over 150 windy metres. What would happen if Matthew fell? How messy would it be? Inklings of dark though whispered in his head, a common event.

_Maybe I should jump._

_Just get it over with._

_You're just another statistic no matter what._

Frowning, Matthew shook his head of such things. They were dominant these days, but he was more scared of privacy invasion from Papa than dying. Papa would take it personally, and become the most emotionally unbearable thing this planet ever encountered. It was best to save Matthew's family from that fate... for now. For the time being, he had to go home before he lost all his rights.

Matthew emptied the last of the whipped cream canister into his mouth. Whipping the empty thing in scorn to the earth below, he began his descent. In good time, he was back on solid ground. Biking home took time, but he was in no rush.

The teen didn’t want to go home anyway. He didn’t want to go anywhere. He wanted to be crunched painlessly into a black hole, one grand enough to equal the emptiness of his social life. Was this a suicidal thought pattern? He didn’t know, and didn’t care.

Street lights washed the concrete of Kitchener in soft orange, bright flies specks on summer breeze. The tiny two storey house deemed “home” was fully lit. That didn’t seem right in the least. This meant Dad wasn’t in bed yet, and Papa was not polishing off his social media binge. Unless a new talent show was airing, something was going down.

Cautiously, he entered and scanned for an ambush. There was only alfred, texting like a rocket to his cloud of followers. Harmless enough, Matthew summarised. Neither parent was in sight, a delicate glass of white wine still on the kitchen table. Perhaps they were fighting over frivolous things again. The vapid sport was what brought them together.

With everything in the clear, Matthew went upstairs. He locked up on the last wooden step, panicking. His door was blatantly ajar, two more heaps of laundry out in the hall. Papa was at it again, disrespecting Matthew’s boundaries.

Taking a deep breath, Matthew forced himself to move. He walked in the room, steeling himself for another round of heckling. Both parents sat on the bed, in extremes of visible emotion. Dad looked war beaten and lost, chin perched on clasped hands. Papa was aflame with anger, or some theatrical variant of it. Before them was a heap on the floor.

It was Matthew’s cutting kit and death poetry. It had been hidden behind a bookcase, escaping detection forever. The wheaten blonde wasn’t completely dense early on. The most alarming of his works was seen by no one. No questions or looks were allowed, no issues leaked forth. Matthew’s shredded soul was not to be exposed to judgement anymore. One more slashing attack might be the end of him.

Papa seemed to feel otherwise, his TV perfect hair in a stressful fray. He approached Matthew aggressively, slamming the bedroom door shut. Matthew cowered slightly, trapped in the room. ‘You aren’t going anywhere.’ Papa threatened via sign language.

‘Hi Papa.’ Matthew greeted meekly, eye contact sliding away.

‘What is this shit?’ Papa demanded, giving no quarter. He gestured to the dark writings on the floor.

‘It’s… I… It’s nothing.’ Matthew didn’t know what he could communicate at this point that wasn’t a lie. The oppressive charisma of his blood father was difficult to defy during arguments.

‘This is BULLSHIT, Matthew! How dare you… you do this to us! Did I not give you enough attention? Did I not try hard enough? Look at me when I’m talking to you!’

If Matthew could retract into his sweater like a turtle, he would. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Sorry isn’t good enough!’ Papa was clearly still in the middle of losing his shit. Dad was speaking up with the opening and closing of mouths. The conversation went silent as they argued via supposed sounds. Many was the flailing dramatics and arm gestures of both parents.

Finally Papa was calmed by a few degrees, glancing at his terrified son. He began to talk normally again, hand gestures more fluidly composed. ‘I’m taking you to the hospital to get evaluated.’

‘No you can’t! How am I going to…’ All protests were ended swiftly.

‘You are going and that’s final.’ Dad added with grave finality, green eyes sharp as ever.

Matthew swallowed, looking away. He was completely and totally screwed. Disarmed of most methods to harm himself now, he remained silent in all ways. Selective mutism had been a difficult habit to stop since Matthew could first use ASL.

He was being admitted in a few hours, after Dad cleared up time off with his busy job. In these few hours of remaining freedom, Matthew could not sleep. He had seen films about psychiatric wards, read books… Hell, he had met a few students with several screws loose.

No choice over your food, your bed, your mind. All freedom would be stripped away for years to come. It was a future Matthew couldn’t bear to live in. He already lived in hell, stripped of any social life or sense of fulfillment. His heart, his broken soul, couldn’t take anymore. He’d rather die than be locked up in a crazy house.

 _He’d rather die than be alone_.

Matthew bolted upright in realization. It was a freeing thought, no longer troublesome in his state. His very last act as a free man would be choosing freedom. Fumbling in the once terrifying dark, Matthew turned on the lights of his now clean bedroom. He took down a picture from grade 5, a hole cut in the drywall behind it.

His parents would never look there, moved by the crappy crayon picture over his final stash. It held his backup cigarettes and drugs from school. They were sleeping and pain pills, intended for palliative care patients. Simply put, these bad boys could probably knock out a horse.

The half empty bottle was emptied into an eager hand. A drug dealing teen had warned Matthew more than three was a dangerous and possibly one way trip. Going to the bathroom, Matthew filled a glass of water and looked at himself one last time. 

Wilted greasy hair framing a depressed expression. Fresh cutting scars were starting to peek out his stone grey long sleeve. How pathetic. Perhaps he was never long for this world, born defective?

The dozen or so pills were swallowed in two parts. Matthew then lay on his bed and waited. In twenty minutes, the world grew fuzzy. Everything was too heavy as his distressed body wobbled to control itself. In a final drunken moment, Matthew managed to scribble ‘I’m sorry’ on his bedroom wall with permanent marker.

Limp and exhausted, Matthew faded into the cold prickling embrace of death.

Arthur stood outside the red brick hospital, smoking the third cigarette of the evening. He didn’t smoke often, but today had been earth shattering levels of stress. Matthew was being checked in by a still panicking Francis. The silly french canadian actor was hiding it all with a mantle of shallow anger.

Finding that tiny bundle of blades behind the bookshelf had been startling. Still, Arthur was a hardened lawyer. He was dealing with that bit as well as anyone could. It was the letters and poetry that broke his heart. Stomping a smoke stub with his leather shoes, Arthur pulled the most damaging note out of his blazer pocket. He still hadn’t changed from work yet.

The letter was short but devastating, written exactly two years ago. It was clearly never intended to be mailed. The letters were still perfect and curling from care, unlike the slop Matthew scrawled now.

_Dear Lars:_

_I miss you. I wish we could have a sleepover again. Dad still won’t let you come over. Remember when we picked flowers in that park by the corner store? I pressed it and dried it. That way you can see it again. It’s below this letter. Do you think of me? I think of you._

_Sweet dreams, Mattie_  
  
There was a dark impression where the mentioned flower was once taped on. Only a single dirty rose petal was left, stuck to the tear stained paper. It was sick and blackened, like Matthew’s mental state. Arthur folded up the letter, putting it back in his pocket. There were dozens of letters like these back home, more depressing as they progressed in time. It was obvious now what happened.

Arthur Kirkland was a monster of a parent. He had separated two boys that were once totally in love. It wasn’t a phase, or finding one’s sexuality. The preteens had truly adored each other back then. Francis, bloody Francis, was completely right the entire time. With mournful resignation, Arthur entered the Grand River hospital.  
  
It was time to fix his broken son.


	25. Black Parade

The changes came subtly at first in Lars’s life. It wasn’t a sharp dropping into living darkness, but a slow stroll.

While Ludwig clearly disapproved of the inked words on Lars's wrist, Gilbert on the other hand had to contain his sheer excitement. It wasn't everyday that someone else in the family got a tattoo, after all. The albino was all for self-expression, and he was alright with it.

Claude and Leanne were children of a modern era, completely unaffected by the new ink job. Well, at least cool uncle Gilbert cared. Lukas cared too, but it wasn’t the same as…

The M name was not allowed in conversation anymore. The memories hurt too much.

When Lars had come home one day from a violin lesson with a piercing in one of his eyebrows, Ludwig could only purse his lips in silent disapproval. The teenager paid it no heed as he swept past the authoritative parental figure, going to his room. Of course, neither of the two Germans knew what was going on with Lars. Inside his room was a mystery.

Grade nine was also the time he started smoking. It took a few false starts. Thanks to another one of the goths, a pierced pincushion named Aaron, he eventually got the hang of it. It could be said it was Reese’s fault as well. Her guardian smoked like a coal plant, so cheap reserve cigarettes were easy to find. The group as a whole was not a healthy influence.

Lars was one with them now, so he decided to go with things.

While he found the black clothing a little much, he could roll with the eyeliner. More ear piercings appeared over the course of several months, accompanied by even more tattoos. The lion had been long completed since then. There was an outline of a ship being traced into his back. The clothing change was the last straw, the final stage in metamorphosis.

Out went all of his light-colored, 'prim and proper' clothing. It had to be replaced with varying dark shades. Even his former appeal for nice-looking leather shoes were replaced with boots of varying cut and make.

Accompanying the dark wardrobe change, was an internal twisting sickness. Once he used to love waking up in the morning, dressing to meet Matthew at some location. As the depths of his despair dropped ever further, his dreams became his torment.

Dreams of Matthew just walking into his life like nothing happened. He was convinced that this was all a bad dream and he was in grade five after the Christmas play. Lars woke from these fantasies frequently, in a cold sweat with his heart hammering in his chest.

Like a true tortured artist, he channeled it into his only remaining passion. There was only music, the violin in particular.

At some point, even music _wasn't_ enough to keep the dark violent thoughts from buzzing through his mind. Lars would sneak out frequently in the evenings, and head out to the shadier parts of Kitchener. He needed an outlet for the indescribable anger he could feel welling up inside him, on those days when channeling his anger through Paganini wasn't enough.

The feel of his fist smashing another guy in the face was a euphoric power trip at first. As his epic tattoo and piercing hobby grew, Mr. B’s weekly allowance and approval died away. So Lars fought. He fought for cash on the side. He fought because the world was so infuriating. Lastly he fought to keep the fire burning within.

If Lars ever stopped, he was terrified to know what little was left under all this hateful shell.

One of his latest excursions into Kitchener's underbelly had awarded him with a motorbike. He had acquired it over a bet, and had come out victorious. Nobody else knew the _exact_ conditions of his find, but it was the perfect topping to his transformation. He could _go anywhere_ within the city limits without having to worry about public transportation.

Higher mobility granted him new adventures, new rackets. Most importantly, Uncle Gilbert _adored_ motorbikes. As the only respected source of approval in Lars’s life, the uncle’s opinions were gold. They had spent hours patching that shitty bike back together in the garage, thoroughly bonded.

During this passage of time Mr. B was invested much more time with Lars’s siblings. Gross fishing excursions on Sundays. Mall trips. Family outings to weird cultural places. It was sickening to a jaded Lars.

How he wanted to just… leave.

Ludwig's attempts to win over his siblings was working. He had won Claude over a long time ago with the dogs. Now that Leanne was in culinary school, he noticed that the blonde German was paying her more attention than before. He remembered that one evening when Leanne came home all excited, exclaiming that they had baked bread together.

Baking bread, laughing, being happy… _How dare they_ . Lars was stricken with steep mood swings over this terrible situation. He always had mood swings now. The only person that might come close to soothing his ire was… **_No_ **. Lars didn’t let himself think of the past.

Fuck. He needed a smoke, or a fight, or something! _Anything_ to forget Matthew. It was ironic, how he woke up the day after that stupid cooking class. He was hungover as the sun was bright, with a burning sting on the back of his neck. Oh shit, a drunk tattoo! He had _heard_ the stories, but he never intended to _be_ one!

Tino grinned like a mother fucker the entire day after. He typically didn’t do drunk jobs, but Lars had spilled truthful words of sorrow and pain on the man’s doorstep. Only he knew the rambling confession that led to a cute bunny peeking out of Lars’s hairline. He wasn’t telling either.

Scrambling out of bed that morning, Lars immediately went to the bathroom. It was to see what he had done in that alcohol-heavy haze from last night. It was a small bunny rabbit, peeking out from the base of his hairline. Nothing too fancy, except for the still-healing color of inflamed skin surrounding the symbol of innocence.

A bunny. A goddamn bunny. It was a reminder of what had been. It was taken away from him that fateful day, almost two years ago now. Never would he admit tears, crackling sorrow leaking from solemn green eyes. _Matthew_.

A few months passed as they do, painful and slow. It was almost fall, a new year of school. Grade ten was just as awful as nine, barely registering to Lars. Some faces were new, some were old. Matthew’s face was not among the starting classes, not that he specifically looked. That temptation was lost to him now. He didn’t deserve to see his Mattie like this.

News certainly had a way of travelling around. The loud "boy king" Alfred had dropped some lines of poetry from whoever the hell knew where. The students in Lars's grade level were rife with rumors and gossip. It was a bit disquieting that Lukas had left high school.

The boy’s friendship had been invaluable these past two years, effectively keeping Lars sane. The enigmatic teen had even made Lars the interim unofficial "leader" of the tattooed goth group. Lars respected this transition all the same.

Even if Lars insisted he was a punk and against all the social norms, his dress style put him squarely with the goths. The benefits of this group was the goth kids having eyes and ears everywhere.

"Did you hear?"

"Reese, what is it _now_?"

"Someone tried to kill themselves. _Again._ "

News of this kind was nothing new to Lars, who was hanging with some of Lukas' younger friends at this point. He was normally known to be the #1 delinquent in their grade, if not the entire school. The goth kids were the 'closest' in terms of being kindred spirits with him. So it was he sat with them today.

The latest rumor mill conversation was caught during lunch, several seats away from Lars. It wasn’t the only student death related chatter in the cafeteria.

"Reese, that's old news, wasn't that what you told us beginning of last year too?"

"Look, I know, but this time it's… you've seen the poetry that's been going around, right? None of us writes shit like that."

While the goth kids were the source of the darker writing in school, they all knew each other's style of prose. This latest rumour wasn't familiar to any of them.

"Who draws crows anyway? You know I prefer ravens!" Reese blurted out.

"I thought you were into spiders, girl," Aaron, another fellow goth, teased.

"Gross. _Anyway_ , yeah… this poetry has crows drawn all over it. Some ominous shit. You know I don't drabble in that kind of imagery."

"So who wrote it?"

"They said it was that… uh, _that deaf kid_."

Those last words made Lars come to a stop. The sandwich he was about to bite into was abandoned as he risked twisting his neck, turning to face the other table. It was easy enough to look calm, be in control. The information ran like water, for however true it was.

There was only one truly deaf kid in all the school… _Matthew_.


	26. Homecoming

Why did the day take much longer than usual?

Lars wanted to skip his classes and corner Alfred about where Matthew was, but he couldn't. He was on extremely thin ice this year. The delinquent had to suffer one entire year attending classes, otherwise he'd get kicked out of the school.

Minutes felt like hours, hours felt like days. At last, _at long last_ , the final bell rang throughout the school. Lars had to corner Alfred, with help from a very willing Ivan. It was to fish out the location of where Matthew had been admitted.

Alfred was not the most willing dispenser of information, cornered at a brick wall outside. He seemed burdened about the topic, however heavy it was to him. The rumours had not been false after all, although they were stretched incredibly far. Matthew was suicidal, or at least very depressed.

Still, one comment struck Lars like a bolt of lightning. Alfred saying it all was a shock. “You know, he did all of it because of you.”

It was the thing Alfred spat in his general direction before shrugging off Lars. This was the last straw, the final push from that golden haired bastard. Lars reaffirmed Alfred being pinned to the wall, winding up an enraged punch. It was a hit that wouldn’t fly to its target.

Confused, Lars looked over. Ivan held back his arm with a death grip. “That would be very stupid.” The Russian giant of a teen warned, eyes dark with danger. Ivan had dislocated men’s arms by accident. It was unknown what he could do intentionally.

"Let go!" Lars growled, bright green eyes flaring up in anger. "Don't hold me down! He doesn't deserve to talk about him like… _like that!_ "

“ **You** don’t deserve to talk about Mattie at all!” Alfred argued, wriggling free once more with Ivan’s assistance.

"You're the one who spread that shit around, huh?" he growled. Lars was familiar with Lukas' crowd, all of them. He knew they had their own different trains of thought. Hell, the fact that it was _Alfred_ of all people who'd spread the poetry around was something else.

The goths had their own rules, and Lars knew of them. What happened in their circle, _stayed_ in their circle. It was something that Lukas had reinforced when he was still around.

" _You don't even give a shit about your brother!_ I've seen you, through the years! **You** never bothered helping him out! _Some brother you are_!" Lars spat out, attempting to corner the shorter blonde again.

“At least I’m not the reason he’s in the hospital!” Alfred, as always, was a loud and tenacious creature of attention. This time was no different. A teacher was swifty marching over from the bus loading area. Some of them had eyes like hawks.

It just so happened that the history teacher, Mr. Yao, was headed their way. "Aiya, what's going on here?" the older man began, folding his arms across his chest. The moment he caught sight of the spiky haired young man, his lips drew into a thin line.

"Laurence," the Chinese man began. He knew it was better to call him by his first name rather than his foreign surname. "What are you doing?"

"Showing this bastard his place," Lars said without thinking, not realizing that he was talking to a teacher. "He's being a righteous—"

“Are you asking to be suspended?” The teacher prompted, with no hint of amusement in his face.

“We don’t mean nothin’ by it.” Alfred quickly recanted. Ivan just stared hard at Lars in thinly veiled aggression. Although he was all for trapping Alfred in a corner and pinning him to walls, the Slavic teen was _pissed_ Lars was the one to do it.

 _“I always get detention, what’s the point? ‘m already on thin ice, anyway,”_ Lars muttered in Dutch, certain that the others wouldn’t be able to understand. Clearing his throat, he glares down at the ground a few moments later.

“Sure. Side with Kirkland here, you _always_ do,” Lars hissed at Ivan, switching back to English. “Just ‘cause I’m the delinquent here…” He backed down and refused to look at anyone in the eye. He could tell that the Russian was glaring daggers at him, and if Professor Yao wasn’t around he’d tell Ivan to shove something up his ass for intervening with his scuffle with Alfred.

“You didn’t tell me where he is,” Lars directed the question at Alfred. “Where’s he admitted.”

“I can’t really stop you anyway.” Alfred sighed, aware of how stubborn Lars was. He slipped a number to Lars. “It’s Dad’s number. He’s been expecting you’d show up. You can’t get in the room without family permission, so text him first.”

After a beat of silence he glared at Lars with pure venom. “Well, that’s it.”

Looking at the number, Lars was nonplussed. Alfred was such a smug bastard.

“You know I’m not going to talk to _your_ father. I have my reasons. Do you have your _other_ father’s number?” he asked, still not looking at present company. Now that the argument had simmered down, their History teacher only shook his head and walked away. 

“Van den Berg! First thing, my office!” The adult of authority declared, glancing in the taller blonde’s direction. His noticeable Chinese accent curled into his English sharply.

“Flip it over. You can _read_ right?” Alfred was already walking off with Ivan, his unofficial bodyguard. Being astronomically popular, a few nearby girls trailed after him. Too many witnesses now.

Rolling his eyes, Lars shaking his head at the sight of Alfred being trailed by his unofficial ‘guard’ and ‘fan club’. He flipped the card over in investigation. He wondered if Francis would be surprised at him showing up.

Going to his parked motorcycle, he took out his phone and punched in the unfamiliar number. Mr. Bonnefoy’s number had changed over the years but the other bastard’s number was _still_ the same.

‘Coming over’ was all he said before sending the message to Francis’s number. Lars sat on his motorbike and crammed his helmet on. Lars was off toward Grand River Hospital in a cloud of smoke.

* * *

The hospital was quiet due to the time of day. It only made sense, since most people were locked up in post work traffic. Lars had minimal waiting time to be served. Printed signs in English, French, and rarely, German, lead the way to Matthew’s room. The interior of the facility was mostly stark white, like any other medical centre. It seemed Lars had always been on the approved visitors list, at Francis’s request.

Francis was true to his actor profession, brooding dramatically outside Matthew’s room. He looked up from his seat, assessing Lars with serious blue eyes. “ _Bonjour_ . It’s been a while, _non_?”

Nothing could prepare him for the sight of the gloomy parent outside the room. Lars breathed a sigh of relief a few moments later. He was thankful that it was the sensible father that he would be meeting today.

“Thank fuck it’s not _him,”_ Lars said by way of greeting. Maybe he was a little too hard on the last word, but that was how things were. “How is he? Is he… is he awake? Can… can I go in?” Lars asked softly a few moments later.

How much of a wreck was the other, really? To be honest, it felt much longer than two years away. That much separation from each other would really do a number on how one person perceives another. Lars was sure that Matthew’s opinion of him was utter shit now.

“Go on. It’s okay.”

At Francis’s approval, Lars peered in the room. The sight of Matthew was much worse than expected. He was thin and tired looking as he looked out a window. His eyes looked red and glossy from tears, trailing into long unkempt hair. Long story short, he looked terrible.

Deaf as always, he didn’t hear Lars stepping in.

He made sure to close the door behind him. He wasn’t sure if he could lock it. To his dismay, he could not. Lars was thankful in that moment that the other couldn’t hear him approaching. The dark dressed teen was still unsure on how to approach his old companion. He wasn’t used to seeing Matthew so pale, so thin…

 _“What’s happened to you…”_ he muttered in Dutch for the briefest of moments. Lars slowly approached the other, hoping that he wouldn’t scare the other shitless out of his mind. Seeing that there was an unoccupied chair near the bed, he turned it around and sat himself down in it. Lars observed peacefully, wondering if the other would notice.

Matthew’s gaze slid over from the window, then froze. Bloodshot eyes widened, while hands trembled. The first signed words after exile were haunting. ‘Am I dreaming?’

That was a bizarre yet sad question. Lars was rusty with reading the gestures, but the general sentiment was there. All Lars could do was shake his head, having rested his arms on the back of the chair and just visually taking in _Matthew_.

Matthew edged a hand closer, grabbing and pulling at the fabric on Lars's sleeve. ‘It feels real.’ He was scared. You could see it in his eyes, his touch, his very being.

Being unpractised in the sign language department, Lars unwittingly spoke. He only remembered after that the other couldn’t hear him.

“Yes, I’m real...” he blurts out, before his eyes widen and he realized his mistake. A few moments later, he unfolded his arms from where he set them. It was a struggle to find the right… thing, to say.

How would he even begin at this point? Two years, without any explanation at all. Suddenly, he was back in the other’s life without warning?

‘He… He separated us,’ Lars finally managed to sign back. Surely, the other knew who he was referring to.

‘It was my fault.’ The response was as shocking as it was unexpected. ‘I wasn’t as goth or cool, or strong as you wanted. I… I tried but I couldn’t. I wasn’t strong enough for you.’ Matthew cried silently, cheeks shiny with trails of grief.

_What?_

Lars’s eyes widened at what Matthew’s talking about. How on earth was it the other’s fault? He stared at the other teen in silence. Lars was shocked as the other tried to explain himself.

‘How is it your fault?’ Lars asked, figuring out what he wanted to say. ‘How is everything _your_ fault? It’s Alfred’s father’s fault!’ Lars argued, angry gesturing at the last part. His sign language was probably horrible, but he was trying. ‘I’ve tried. I _wanted_ to see you. But… but the thick browed bastard put an… he told me to stay well away from you… ever since that argument I was involved in.’

Surely Matthew could remember at least which event that was. The knife fight, which involved a Spanish bastard from Guelph. He attempted to attack one of the goth kids at the time. Things would have become much worse without his intervention.

‘If I didn’t leave you alone. He said he’d take me… he’d take _me_ to court.’

Matthew held Lars’s hand desperately. The thin teen was trying to latch on like Lars was oxygen. ‘None of that matters. I should have tried harder to see you. I… I didn’t try hard enough.’

‘I don’t… I don’t deserve this...’ Lars signed back, inching away. ‘Look at me, Matthew. _Look at me, what do you see?_ ’ Lars angled the chair away from the bed before finally standing up and revealing himself in all his black, anachronistic glory.

‘I’ve changed! And not for the better, either!’ He went on as he gestured down at himself. Clad from head to toe in dark clothing, the most obvious difference now was the scar that marred the right side of his forehead. The black eyeliner was still there, though admittedly not as thick as it had been earlier. Several piercings made their appearance on his ears and eyebrows. Lars looked like the stereotypical guy that your mother would warn you about.

‘School sucks, it’s a miracle I’m still in it. Hell, not even Mr B. or Uncle Gilbert notice me anymore because of how far I’d fallen.’

None of this bothered Matthew at all. He always saw behind the acts and the bravado. It was a blessing and a curse, for Lars couldn’t lie to him.

‘I’m… I’m at the bottom Lars. No matter how hard you fall… I could catch you. I could… be your friend, I’m… I missed you so much it hurts.’ Matthew wouldn’t let go with his one hand, signing with the other. He looked ready to crumble and fade if Lars pushed him away one more time. It was clear just how broken he had become. Loneliness had swallowed him whole.

It was unbelievable how stubborn Matthew was, how foolish he was to choose Lars. ‘Look. _He_ threatened to throw _me_ into jail! What can you say about that?!’ The punk teen tried again to illuminate the reality of… himself.

Matthew was only aware of the knife fight. There were other things that he didn’t want to reveal to Matthew. There were certain incidents he wasn’t too proud of admitting to other people, if ever. The family had a proverbial leash around his neck, only loosened considerably thanks to Uncle Gilbert. 

The longer time went on, the more… _complicated_ the situation at home became. He knew that he couldn’t turn to either Claude or Leanne now. Both older siblings moved away, going forward with their lives. Not even the family imposed curfews could keep him at home. Lars preferred to stay out of the house longer than he should. Perhaps he light up more than a few cigarettes along the way to keep himself preoccupied.

Maybe it was luck he hadn’t cracked that new pack open yet. A blessing in disguise, perhaps? Lars didn't smell of smoke when he came to visit, at least.

‘I have a _rap sheet_ , Matthew! How do… _how do you think I ended up coping?_ ’

Matthew looked at him in a way that had no words specifically. It was the same as he had always looked at Lars, since the very beginning. It was a fond expression only growing more ardent with time. By god, that hurting blonde still wasn’t judging Lars. Despite all the shit that had transgressed these past two years, Matthew had waited.

He had waited until it almost killed him.

There was no more sign language. Matthew simply tugged Lars close. Kicking off the hospital covers, he got off his bed as much as it would allow. Due to being on suicide watch, he was partially leashed to the thing so he couldn’t harm himself.

Matthew held him in a careful hug. It was a simple gesture worth a hundred words. A thousand perhaps. Lars didn’t want to deal with any of them.

“I don’t deserve this,” Lars muttered softly, looking down at the other. Suddenly too close for comfort, he tried to push the other away. Lars was intent on keeping Matthew untouched and pure. “Not like this, Matthew. Not this way…”

Lars’s arms hang limply on their sides like wet noodles, unable to move. How the hell was he supposed to accept the other’s show of affection? The edgy punk knew he caused more than his fair share of trouble, undeserving of this care.

Hell, he didn’t want to tell anyone that he might have shown that Spaniard his place. Lars was into paid street fighting. He was smoking and cursing, dragging his own soul in the mud. He was not a good person.

Fuck, Lars knew that he had to find a place to move out to soon since he’d been issued an ultimatum by Ludwig himself. Not even Uncle Gilbert could intervene on this one.

“Why… why me?” Lars asked the quiet room, forgetting the other can’t hear him. “Why, of all people, _me?_ ”

Matthew wouldn’t relent. He was the ocean, battering Lars’s self imposed walls. The touch starved Matthew held on for dear life, nuzzling and memorizing all he had lost. Eventually, he let go. He was cold from being so damn thin and away from covers. Paper hospital dresses were not known for insulative properties.

Lumping himself under the covers, those affectionate eyes never tore away. ‘I was never mad at you. You promised me years ago, remember? You made _that_ promise. It took my dad, the school system and… god knows what else to stop you.’

Batting eyelashes at Lars in unknown manner, Matthew seemed to be _admiring_ Lars. ‘It shows how strong you are. Stronger than me. I’m a mistake in comparison to you.’

“How…how am **_I_ ** supposed to be stronger than you? I just… _I went out of control, Matthew!_ How can you explain that? **_I had to stay away from you so that I wouldn’t drag you down with me!_ **”

There, he said it.

Not realizing that Matthew could read lips now, Lars went on.

“If I wasn’t in the right place at the right time, Reese would’ve ended up worse in that bastard’s hands! He was forcing himself on her, Matthew! _She was about to get raped!_ If I hadn’t stepped in and stopped him, she would’ve ended up worse! Maybe even **_dead_ ** if I hadn’t intervened!”

Taking a deep breath, he attempted to calm himself down, but no, he was now off the rails and kept going.

“I’ve been in underground street fights, Matthew, _what don’t you understand?_ Mr B stopped giving me cash for myself in grade eight. I’ve had to resort to other ways to get enough money! I used up almost all the money I’d saved up through the years for my tattoos! My piercings! My cigarettes! My other expenses! Matthew, _if you think you’re worse off than me, guess what? You’re not._ I’m about to get kicked out of the house I live in. Fuck this, _I don’t even know if I have a place to stay... if I survive this school year!_ ”

Matthew seemed to take this all in with a neutral expression, though that certain ardent look never faded. He offered a hand, squeezing the leather jacket sleeve. Finally he smiled and responded. ‘But I still want to be your friend. I promised you I would be. I don’t care about all the things you’ve done. You did them all for good reasons.’

The trust was there in his eyes like a beacon. He was even _more_ stubborn than Lars. Matthew, all the while, held an iron grip on Lars so he couldn’t leave.

“Wha—”

The surprised expression caught him off-guard. Wait, how in the hell was he able to—Lars was pretty sure that Matthew _couldn’t_ read lips!

 _Ah, fuck!_ He thought, his ears suddenly burning hotly out of sheer embarrassment. “You… you can _understand_ me now?” he managed to say after a few moments of awkward silence.

“Matthew. _Not all of them were good—_ ” Lars was about to go on, before pursing his lips shut and looking away from the other. **_Shit_ **. He’d have to be more careful about going off like that now.

When had Matthew become so iron willed? He would not relent, getting upset himself. ‘Lars. I’ve picked you over everyone else. You’re the very best of everyone! I won’t let you put yourself down like that when you’re such a brave good person!’

Lars would rather retort in sign. It had been way too long since he did it. He gave up and continued talking.

“How the hell am **_I_** brave, Matthew? _What in the actual fuck?_ How am **_I_** the best out of everyone?! After all this? Four—no, **_two_** years apart from each other? I deliberately isolated myself from you, Matthew, because…”

It’s here he faltered.

“Because… I know. I know you would follow me… to wherever the fuck I headed off to. _You—you’re not like that_ . You see too much good in me. Your… your perception’s too rosy. This is me… now. All dark, rage, righteous anger, defiance, fuck the system, screw the rules! I don’t follow them, I have my _own_ rules now!”

Lars was stammering now, fumbling an obstacle course of feelings he had dodged for two years. Boy, if Matthew could hear his voice dropping off into silence.

‘I missed a lot of what you said, but I saw enough. I’m not giving up on you! We promised… We promised that…’ Tears welled up in those violet eyes, but his face spelled out something else. It was a visual confession of soft feelings neither teen had the insight to describe. ‘So I’m not giving up on you, if you don’t give up on me!’

 _“I've already given up on myself, you know._ ” Lars looked away from Matthew as he muttered. Lars couldn’t bear this underserved attention. “Matthew. What don't you understand...” He mumbled to himself. _“I don't deserve this._ ”

Matthew didn’t seem thrilled at his affection being pushed away. All that adoration, that energy, collapsed as swiftly as it came. He once more resumed being an empty shell. ‘I don’t deserve you.’ Matthew signed, looking completely exhausted. ‘I get it. Who would want this? All of this…’ He exposed his thin legs, a warzone of cutting scars spanning months. ‘Who would… ever...’

At this point, he lost his words and sobbed. It was a noisy heart breaking sound, like angels dying. It was the most piteous sight on the planet. ‘Just leave me to die then.’ Matthew gestured one last time, turning away to hide under thin sheets.

“And what, have your annoying asshole of a brother deck me?” Lars mumbled as he sat on the very edge of the bed, unable to look at the other. He wondered if there was a smoke alarm in the room somewhere. The itch to light up a cigarette bothered him.

Lars let out a sigh. “Look. I can't just. I can't just come waltzing into your life again without upsetting _him,_ of all people. What if he bans me from visiting you, ever? _What would you do, then?_

Matthew’s pale hand gingerly squeezed his, emerging from fuzzy covers. Matthew looked so tired, yet cautious. ‘So… nothing I did sent you away?’

“Don't… don't do _that_. Ever. Again,” Lars managed to say in Matthew's direction at last, finding the courage to unstick his voice. “I swear if you try to kill yourself again. I wouldn't… I wouldn't know what to do at that point.”

‘Can I tell you a secret?’ Matthew asked, daring to smile. It was a weak expression, more a wilted line of a thing.

“What? What is it?”

‘I had a plan. But Dad found my cutting kit, and Alfred talked and… things blew up. But I didn’t want all this attention. I wasn’t doing it for… I didn’t want to be selfish.’

Matthew seemed ashamed as his smile faded. He wasn’t proud of himself, of his weak existence.

“You did—” Anger made words falter.

Lars finally turned to face him, and there was this look in his eyes. Something that Matthew hadn't seen in the time they'd spent together. Or even apart, for that matter.

“Matthew François Bonnefoy, what in the actual fuck were you—” Lars began, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. But no, he was on the warpath.

“Why would you do such a thing?! What did you get from it? What did you _learn_ from it? Well? **_Tell me_ **! What. Did. You. Learn. From this mess?!” he exhaled angrily, standing up and raising his other arm to gesture around the room.

‘I… I… didn’t know what to do okay!? I didn’t… I was so alone I couldn’t, you don’t know! You don’t know how empty the world is when there’s nothing to talk to! Nothing to be with! A lot of lonely nothing, until you can’t even… You don’t even know what to do anymore. I don’t even have a future! No one hires deaf people, Lars! No one cares about deaf people! I’m doomed to be a fuck up supported by his parents forever, and I know it!” Matthew was just as flush with anger, a rare emotion he never let loose.

“I don't believe you! You had options, you had a chance! Yet you chose this!” Lars replied bluntly, that same dark look in his eyes. While he only managed to catch the first two or so sentences, Lars was incensed with rage.

“I don't believe what you said about you not knowing what to do. You obviously wrote that poem down! You were… I swear, if you do something like this _again_ I'll never forgive you for being such a dumbass!” Lars was barely holding back the righteous anger simmering inside him.

“I swear, if you try and kill yourself again just because you're feeling abandoned _I'll never forgive you for that fucking stupidity you're showing me right now!_ ” Lars snarled as he moved closer and stared at him so hard it's like he's boring a hole through the other.

Matthew stood, getting out of bed as much as possible without looking away. That same haunting darkness looked right back, just as damaged and broken. ‘If you ever go to jail, I’ll never forgive you either. I… I lo…” Matthew’s normally fluent gestures seemed to choke a moment.

‘I… I… I _love_ you, but you throw away such talent for crime. It’s unforgivable.’ Matthew was sure to sign slowly, seriously, for Lars to read every symbol. ‘... please.’

“You—you wh...” Lars stammered a few moments at that last pronouncement. “Wait a second, are you—” he tried to pick up speed again but, fuck.

How—how could that be? How could Matthew be in… _in love with him?_ It was too much for his brain to comprehend, and just like that, he locked up.

He didn't even realize he fainted as his legs went out from under him.


	27. Careful Dances

Matthew seemed to be a different teenager from when he was first admitted to the hospital. Dad barely noticed, stepping back even more as head of the family. After having second hand endangered Matthew with his decisions, the parent receded into his work. Along with a rattling new prescription of antidepressants, Matthew seemed to have acquired a strange new condition.

It was joy. Ever since Lars came to see him in the hospital, he couldn’t stop smiling like an idiot. Lars, _his_ Lars, came to see if he was alive and okay. Despite babbling on about not deserving redemption, he visited constantly. The eyeliner darkened rebel had practically kicked down the door to get in during one evening.

Even after that angry confession of love, the taller teen had yet to run away. Lars seemed to be suffering enormous mental malfunction, but he was still showing up every day at the hospital. It was difficult to look away from Lars once he was around. He looked so distinctively dark and macho in all his tattoos and piercings. Matthew was rather taken by the look, not having inspected it as closely before.

Matthew had thought Lars abandoned him for so long. It simply wasn’t the case. They had been torn apart by a series of unfortunate mechanisms, each of which was not wholly responsible. This sparked the first light in years, burning hotly in Matthew’s gut.

It _had_ to be hope. It couldn’t possibly be love, for Matthew was barely worthy of such luxuries. Lars was probably tolerating his presence.

It was a dizzying warmth that brought forth giddy wide smiles in the privacy of Matthew’s room. Not accustomed to being so happy, the previously suicidal male assumed this was hope. It had to be, for he was familiar with few other emotions. Nothing he had felt before was so consuming and soft.

With this new attitude, school started out brightly. Matthew was not far behind academically, since Lars “accidentally” brought his homework to the hospital many times. Things didn’t go back to the way they were overnight. At least Matthew’s life was less numb.

Lars transitioned into his life in sudden jaunts. If Dad was unhappy about it, he certainly wasn’t saying anything. Papa’s blogging had never been so active.

The first two days of school went as expected. With everyone knowing he had tried to off himself, the bullying picked up right where it left off. There was already notes in his locker addressed to “dead boy”. Barely 48 hours after leaving the hospital, Lars leapt to his defence.

It was the usual tailing bullies, a jock splinter group Alfred barely interacted with. You simply had to walk faster than them. In the process of traveling to class he became distracted. Lars was very done up today, full gothic punk mode activated. He had his expression set to murder as he stomped over.

Maybe Matthew lingered over those fitted black jeans. They did wonders for Lars’s ass. Maybe a pair would serve Matthew well, really rounding his own… Why did he want to look good in jeans? Who would even look?

Blushing faintly, Matthew had completely forgotten he was being hunted. A heavy hand grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around. It was those meddlesome jocks again. One had him by the shoulder, punch pre wound to launch.

 _Whatever._ He wasn’t supposed to be alive anyway. Matthew slouched and waited to be crushed.

It was an assault that never happened. Lars was there in record time, prying off the predatory grips. These latest attackers looked terrified of Lars, backing away. With a soft touch, He was guided behind Lars’s snarling defensive form. It was the touch of an angel.

Just like that, Matthew gained a hall escort.

Other sudden changes sprang up in that week. Matthew’s usual cafeteria corner now had a larger social dead zone than ever, a solid radius of several chairs distance. Lars had decided he was going to side three chairs away from Matthew. It was a paltry two chairs away in no time at all. Lars seemed to be having his own malfunctions all week. He cycled between looking tired, confused, and violent towards others.

Matthew’s new apparent bodyguard was also forgetful. Having trained to read lips since grade five with Papa, Matthew could catch most of a conversation in French or English. He couldn’t take many notes while performing such a task. It was vital to his survival as a future working adult to read lips. The disabled teen could admit to this much.

Matthew finished his lunch, washing down his antidepressant with a small chocolate milk. It was a bribery of sorts to take the chalky pills at all. He was a fast eater, always has been. Rapidly fleeing the cafeteria was needed to dodge his social predators.

Today Lars was mumbling words to himself again. Matthew caught bits and pieces from before as well. There had been a tense phone call earlier in the day. The self harming blonde was constantly observed by Lars, Dad, or Alfred. This afforded many opportunities to “listen” in on phone calls and conversations of his guardians.

Today was particularly juicy for visual eavesdropping. Close to the end of lunch, Lars answered his phone. Only one side of the conversation was observed, but it was enough to get context.

“Hello again.” Lars possibly spoke into his device. Lip reading was not entirely accurate, nor was it capable of catching sarcasm.

“No. I’m not going. I can’t just leave Matthew…” Lars was talking too fast to make sense. Only pieces were getting through. “... weekend, to rot in his room… I don’t care what you say… Family, right?” Without warning Lars hung up and  rolled his eyes.

‘Who was it?’ Matthew asked innocently via sign language, scooting a seat closer in stealthy fashion.

‘It’s my family. They want me to go to a stupid beach this weekend. It’s not like they give a shit,’ Lars answered clumsily, his ASL form gone to shit after two years of neglect. It was coming back, but it would take time.

‘You don’t have to babysit me. I’m fine on my own.’ Matthew offered with a gentle smile. The teen hardly knew the meaning of ‘on my own’ now days. Curfews and a paranoid Papa effectively ended any resemblance of privacy.

This cracked Lars’s mask of calm, a newly discovered trigger. It was something never seen in those smart green eyes before, absolute terror. ‘You’re not! You were let alone two years and you almost…” … _killed yourself_. He couldn’t even sign the heavy silent words. Those strong hands trembled, Lars’s soul trembled in pale shock.

It shouldn’t have been soothing to know Lars was disturbed by such loss. Still, Matthew’s heart pattered as he leaned into Lars’s side. Touch starvation had turned Matthew into a bigger sap than ever. He needed Lars’s hugs insatiably, more than breathing. He wanted to become the man’s trademark leather jackets and glue to Lars. It was all two years of isolation catching up with him. Matthew probably wasn’t in real love. What could he know of it?

_Yeah, that was all._

The idea tumbled out of Matthew as fast as he could form words with eager hands. ‘Why don’t you take me with you to the beach? I’m sure your family will be bringing people. I get out of the house. You don’t have to play watch dog. I won’t be harassed by all these animals. I might even get a tan.’

Lars paused in thought, then nodded. He smiled as he signed. ‘That’s a great idea.’ It was a beautiful happy expression, exceedingly rare on the lanky teen’s serious face. Matthew forgot how to breathe a second at the sight of it.

He _also_ got a little hard.

It was an embarrassing problem that had never existed at all before. Prior to being shoved in the hospital, Matthew was certain he was asexual or broken in the head. Before he could barely make himself react. These past few days he couldn’t stop himself from… experiencing things.

This was all par for the course, Matthew guessed. He was seventeen, the height of brain scrambling hormones. Being horny as holy hell was something that was healthy, if _really_ gross. Why was this only happening at lunch and two other classes? Lars’s fitted jeans couldn’t be responsible for all this. This wasn’t how ‘gay’ worked, was it? There was an obvious troubling answer Matthew didn’t want to contemplate.

He settled for dashing off to the bathroom and making an annoying reaction go away.


	28. Beach Problems

This beach business was a terrible idea. The whole Saturday was starting off badly. After doing over twenty internet quizzes and tests, Matthew was in a sour mood. The collective wisdom of the internet was wrong, damn it!

 _He wasn’t gay._ Matthew was just… in love with his best and only friend. That was just it, nothing else to it, no mystery. The internet was wrong in every way it could be wrong! This was going to be a clean fun visit to a beach with a friend and his various family members. Nothing more would occur.

This oath lasted all of twenty minutes. Lars had pulled up in his sweet motorcycle, parking crooked on the lawn. He then sat atop the mighty machine to smoke a cigarette. It was a powerful image, undeniable in it’s cool sexuality. Matthew bit his lip, looking down from his window with lowered lids. He was already hungry to touch and pull and _take_ …

 _No._ Bad brain! The bad boy imagery was getting him all bothered. Yeah. That seemed logical. Bad boys were cool, it was probably normal to be so turned on by such types. The only bonus of the day was the ride to the beach. Holding tight, Matthew was so pleased, ready to melt. He was a cuddler to his core, with few people safe enough to complete such actions on. Kumajirou was the only creature that typically received all this pent up affection.

Things only got worse. Upon arrival, it was discovered the Beilschmidts were setting up for a barbeque. Lars eating a sausage. That was a fun thought. Matthew was still freaking out internally over the possibility of wanting to sexually ravage Lars. Gay sex looked gross and terrifying! He was battling his teenage libido like the Dutch fought the sea. The wheaten blonde couldn’t help but feel he was losing.

Everyone but Matthew was relaxed. He was so wound up, he exploded the mustard bottle by squeezing it too hard. In a gush of yellow condiment, Lars’s snug black shirt was ruined. ‘I’m so sorry!’ he signed frantically.

Leanne and Claude seemed to openly laugh. They then took the remaining mustard and squeezed some on their burgers. A ghostly pale Gilbert was nearby, hiding from the sun with a parasol as he grilled patties and sausages.

Matthew helped peel off the black shirt, speckled in mustard. ‘Sorry I messed up your clothes.’ The freckled teen signed mid-process, abashed.

Lars shrugged, only a little concerned, and let the undressing happen. It was surprising to see him so loose, given how he fainted over Matthew’s love confession a week prior. Truth be told, both boys were in a dance of trust issues right now, riddled with questions.

With care, no condiments ruined wet hair. Matthew’s fingers grazed pale skin as they gripped dark fabric. So warm, and firm, a side effect of fitness. Feeling heat crawl up his body, Matthew finished taking the shirt off.

The chest was lightly haired, lanky like the rest of Lars. From broad shoulders to abs soft in rest, there was a light smattering of chicken pox scars. Remnants of years past, smallest of craters in creamy skin. The mighty Dutch lion tattoo was the most prominent landmark. It was above Lars’s heart, a testament to his birth country in detailed monochrome. Blushing fiercely now, the wheaten blonde carefully folded the splattered shirt. Clean sides out, he handed it over with care.

‘Here you go, I have an extra shirt in my bag.’ The offer was pressing as it tumbled out of embarrassingly eager hands.

‘Yeah, I’d love one.’ Lars replied, seemingly blind to the raking gaze that memorized his body. It took a minute to move, or register reality. Matthew was snapped out of heavy lust by a shoulder shake. ‘Mattie, the shirt?’

‘Yes, I’ll get it.’ Matthew repeated, grateful for the distraction. He walked over to Lars’s motorcycle, rifling through a leather saddle bag. True to form, there was a red shirt with moderate sleeves. It was a striking colour, enough to hide cutting scars when wet. Lars wearing _his_ shirt, splashing in the water. Sparkling droplets of water framing his soaked form like gold…

Shit. _Shit_. Ashamed, Matthew closed his eyes and hid his face in the bundled shirt. It was happening again, his body was reacting. Dead kittens, old nuns, bitter vegetables… He thought of everything horrible he could imagine. Finally the tent in his wet swimming trunks settled to a vague shape scattered by bright patterns.

Assuming his southern half cooperated most of the day, this trip to the beach could be really fun. It was the first day out with non-family he enjoyed in years. Heart beating from happy unknowns, Matthew returned with a skip in his step. It was clear Lars needed help getting sunscreen on his neck and upper back.

Returning to the sand, the shirt was presented. It was set on Lars’s orange beach towel with minimal care. “I could help.” Matthew offer meekly.

‘I think I’ll tough it out and go shirtless. I could use a tan.’ Lars spoke and gestured in hybrid fashion, obviously nervous. His sign language still needed vast improvement.

‘You’ll burn in minutes. I’ll barely take any time.’ Matthew corrected him quickly.

They stared each other down, both so sacrificing yet keen to help the other. It was ridiculous in all honesty, yet this kept occurring. ‘Please?’ Matthew offered lastly with a sweet smile. Lars’s iron will finally gave way to the unexpected kindness.

‘Can you rub sunscreen on my back? I already did the front.’ Lars conceded to Matthew’s wisdom, hopefully with a minimum of resentment. The question was so loaded with danger, yet innocent. This was going to be _torture_ , though it was unclear who would suffer more.

‘Yes…’ Matthew stammered via shaky nod. He was handed the lotion bottle, struggling not to full body blush like a damn tomato. He could do this! Squirting a sizeable puddle of sunblock in his hands, he struggled to hold together rational thought. Still, the task was done.

Did Matthew linger on the application, but of course. To feel the ebb and tensing of muscles under his fingers was intoxicating. Only pure will stopped Matthew from gripping skin, kissing it, worshipping this milk pale back. He was **_so_ ** gay. He was so incurably in lovesickness for this man’s backside.

Matthew ran a hand one more time over Lars’s back, tracing the tattooed constellation of Leo the lion. Below that, the outline of an old sailing ship on the waves was almost complete, minor details missing here and there. Lastly, the neck was left. It was a pleasure to massage the last of the sunblock in. Wouldn’t it be nice to tangle his fingers in that blonde hair? Amidst these little mental treasures, a new sight was seen.

It was the smallest of tattoos, a little bunny. It was burrowed in amongst the hairline like a true creature. It was innocence and reminders of childhood promises. It took all Matthew’s reserves to stop himself from kissing it, nuzzling this fine neck.

He could feel it in the muscles, Lars relaxing just the slightest. He enjoyed this, in some small measure he liked this attention. This new fact fanned Matthew’s budding spark of love into a healthy flame.

Matthew wanted to kiss Lars badly. Instead, he behaved like a saint. A tortured lovesick saint, about to boil over from blush. He tapped Lars on the shoulder. The taller male glanced back, smiling. ‘Done.’ Matthew informed him.

Something of interest seems to narrow Lars’s attention. He turned around to inspect Matthew like he was a forensics case. ‘Are you okay? You look overheated.’

‘NO, no… I’m fine. Really.’ Matthew insisted with too much force.

‘You are _red_. Are you burning already? It’s only been twenty minutes.’ Lars would not relent, a bloodhound over the issue.

Matthew could not falter and fuck up. He made it this far! ‘No, I’m sure I’ll live. I have a shirt on to cover up things.”

Still, his fate loomed. “Sunburn isn’t good for anyone. You seem to want me so badly, _so let me take care of you_.’ Lars probably meant to be intimidating, but the command was titillating instead. Oh god, was Matthew into being a submissive too?

Matthew had totally forgotten everything during this torture session of lust. He struggled to make a play off this, but only stumbled a few misshapen words. Lars seemed to take this as a confident agreement to his suggestion. “Lay on your belly and I can get started.”

 _Fuck_. That was the only thought that cycled through Matthew’s panicking mind. He numbly went along with things, trying to act just dandy about this. The facade lasted all of thirty seconds. Lars’s hands were magic, warm soft comfort in paradise. They ran with the grain of anxiety taut muscles. It all melted Matthew into a purring puddle. 

In all honesty, Matthew didn’t know what cat purrs sounded like. Maybe they had no sound at all, but boy could you feel them. Right now he was rumbling like the most pleased cat on the planet. The very best of this royal treatment came at the end, just like dessert. A few swipes of sunscreen were applied right at the line before his swim trunks.

The teasing possibility of more floated forth mentally. This was all too much after all... Matthew reviled in sudden horror at his current predicament. He was hard as a rock with nowhere to flee. He was gay. He was more homosexual than every rainbow in the sky. It was so embarrassing to be trapped like this, coiled and hot and wanting. He would burn in hell forever if his obvious condition was revealed at a family beach.

In frantic thought, he was poked in the back. He adjusted his slipping glasses, looking back awkwardly. It was Lars, oblivious as usual. The imagery of this charmingly dense man above him was powerful. “Do you need any other help?”

Matthew had never wanted to say yes so badly in his entire life. Instead, he shook his head.

“Okay. Meet you in the water then.” With that, Lars was off to swim. He ran off, so fit and devastatingly shirtless. Chewing a lip and scrunching grip in pale sand, the horny teen watched helplessly. Today would be the worst and best day of Matthew’s life by far.

* * *

For some strange reason, Claude couldn't help but observe the goings-on between his younger brother and Matthew. Formerly a constant part in Laurence's early years, there was a time that the two had what he surmised to be a falling-out. The two boys were once more symbiotic in nature. That was roughly a month ago, with the beginning of the new school year. Seeing them together again made it feel that all was okay with the world.

But for Claude, there was _something_ he couldn't put a finger on. Whenever he would see his younger brother together with the other, there was this uneasy, borderline ugly feeling inside of him. He wasn't sure if it was jealousy, or anger, but he had to get to the bottom of this.

And he wanted his answers _now._

Moving over so that he was a little closer to Ludwig, he wondered how best to get his ad—his _father's_ attention, since the other was on his phone doing who-knew-what at that point.

"Uhm… Dad?" he began, unsure at first. He had to get it over with _now,_ before he lost his bravado.

"Yes?" the older man replied, not looking up from his phone's screen. He was in the middle of answering an urgent email message that had been sent to him, despite him telling his workmates not to disturb him with anything work-related while he was on 'holiday'.

"Dad, have you… have you ever had this. This feeling, that when you see something and you feel like you want to lash out at it… for unknown reasons, like. It makes me… _upset_ when I see Laurence and Matthew together. Am I… am I okay in thinking that…" he drops off, looking away for a few moments so he can gather his thoughts.

"Are you jealous of them?" he asks the older son, not missing a beat.

"N-no! W-why would I be?!" he answered defensively. Maybe a little _too_ quickly, but who cared?

"The way you answered gives it away, Claude. You're jealous of them," Ludwig answered simply, typing away a quick reply while considering what the other had mentioned. "Since when?"

Claude blinked at him.

"Uh, what do you mean..." he begins to stammer, feeling a rise of color tint his cheeks.

"Since when have you been jealous about their companionship?" the older man inquires, turning to face the younger and lowering the sun glasses he was wearing.

Now that he was caught between a rock and a hard place, Claude's embarrassment began to flood out of him.

"D-dad! I didn't mean… Why would I even steal Matthew away from-"

 _"So you're gay, too?"_ He asked, confirming the stuttering and stammering coming from the younger man.

Claude fled for the water, unable to deny otherwise. He didn’t want to answer that last question the older man had posed. At least, _not yet anyway._


	29. First Contact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I slept in really bad before posting our usual Friday update. Life has been rough lately. So um, have two chapters to make up for my brain falling out. ~ Jupiterra

Matthew didn’t know what to do. It had been months since the beach accident, but his problems were magnifying. Lars, at least subconsciously, was just as affection starved as him. The self appointed bodyguard was now sitting next to him in both their classes and lunch. Hand holding was slowly making a return, along with exchanged warm glances.

It was enough to make Matthew crawl in his skin. He craved Lars. Oh to be with him, around him, _inside_ him! Lust was threatening to burst dam walls, and Matthew had barely survived to Christmas.

It drove him to smoking, honestly.

Keeping the bedroom door shut to stop winter drafts, he enjoyed a cheap horrible cigarette. It was from an Indian reserve, the last place in this cursed country you could afford such habits. He only had ten minutes at most. Ever since the cutting kit was taken away, he wasn’t allowed to close his door.

Short of masturbating or being asleep, Matthew wasn’t allowed to be alone anymore. He was hardly bothered by the change. His family had not respected his privacy before. Now was practically the same.

Less than half way through Matthew’s precious smoke, Papa appeared. Instead of a glare or another lecture, the parent surprised him. Papa snatched the cigarette away and used it himself. He inhaled it greedily, blowing out the window.

“ _Mon dieu,_ I needed that,” Matthew saw him speak in French. The entire household continually forgot he could read lips effectively now, often blurting out random thoughts. Shoulders relaxing, the parent put on his usual hypocritical act, now using sign language.

‘These are bad for you, you know. Cancer.’ he scolded while still smoking.

Matthew glared, gestures dripping sarcasm. ‘Really?’

‘Oh don’t be like that. I’m supposed to say that as a parent.’

Father like son, they both rolled their eyes and shared the cigarette. It was a nice moment, small but momentous in how real it was. Finally they finished up and fanned any remaining smoke outside. Dousing the room in aerosol air freshener, they settled on the bed. ‘What’s stressing you out?’

‘Do I have to tell you? It’s _embarrassing_ ,’ Matthew objected staunchly.

‘Tell me, or I’ll ground you.’ Papa’s reply was deceptively casual, but he did have such powers.

Matthew rolled his head back in exasperation. Well, this wasn’t the worst person to talk to. Papa had been dying to do the sex talk since they were eleven. He was apparently very knowledgeable about such gross topics.

‘I’m… in love with someone. I don’t know if they’re in love with me.’ Matthew admitted the truth after the four longest months of his life. It did feel incrementally better to tell someone something.

‘Ah. Lars.’

Matthew went red with embarrassment, curling around a pillow. He hadn’t told anyone but Lars about his feelings. ‘How could you... How do you even know? You could be wrong.’

‘You’ve been giving him bedroom eyes for _years_ . We all know. _Everyone_ here knows.’ The blunt truth made Matthew shrivel up smaller. He hid his face in his pillow, sure he was cooking from blush. He only peeked out when his hair was affectionately ruffled. ‘Have you tried asking him about this?’

Matthew shook his head shyly. ‘It’s probably pity. He pities me.’

‘Well maybe try hinting at it. See if he plays for the other team.’ Papa offered a kindly smile, grabbing Matthew’s laundry basket as he left. He looked back just once, signing one handed as the basket was held with the other hand.

‘Oh, and about all the wet dreams. Try wearing a condom to bed. It makes clean up a _lot_ easier.’

Matthew hid his face and cursed mentally.

* * *

Matthew wriggled impatiently by the door, failing to act casual. He had taken his Papa’s advice to heart, and hinted strongly at Lars all winter. Not wanting the handsome hunk to faint, there was no more grand love confessions. It was all messages in food, shifts in body language.

Naturally Lars was blind to everything subtle. It had been months of the troubled teen not seeing Matthew’s loving gestures. How he longed for returned affection!

It was beyond frustration. Matthew tried one more grand gesture. He was going to spoil Lars silly with the best sleepover a boy could ask for. After making him dim with fun and food, perhaps a few stray kisses might ghost sleep stilled lips… Perhaps.

With Papa gone to Toronto and Dad staying late at work for a case, now was the time! Even Alfred was distracted with Ivan in his room. As if on cue, Lars was spotted exiting a taxi. It was a relief to know he wasn’t driving his motorcycle around in freezing winter temperatures. The poor thing barely withstood the cold under regular circumstances.

Matthew was far too impatient, for he had an evening packed with fun plans. He was going to make Lars feel like a god, then attempt talking about the massive crush on him. It had been _months_ since the hospital love confession with no discussions. It was pretty damn clear Lars wouldn’t talk about Matthew’s feelings on his own.

The door was swung open prematurely with glee. Matthew buzzed with energy as Lars entered the house. ‘I’m glad you made it!’ Matthew greeted him affectionately in a flurry of gestures, pulling him into a hug after.

‘Close the door first, it’s freezing out,’ Lars replied, his own sign language skills greatly improved. Four months of constant use at school was paying off.

Matthew closed the door, then went on. ‘It’s pretty cold out I guess.’

‘It’s icy outside! I don’t know how all of Canada doesn’t die every year.’

Matthew huffed out humour, patting the taller teen on the shoulder. ‘There, there. You’ve survived ten years here, you’ll make it one more.’

“Barely,” Lars complained verbally although he didn’t mean it, then paused. He sniffed the air, finally noticing the semi-strong scents of fried food. “Oh… you made something?”

Matthew nodded and led the way. In the kitchen was a mini mountain of _bitterballen_ . In the simplest terms they were soft balls of meatloaf with a crispy breaded coating. Supposedly, it was the height of Dutch comfort food. It was a believable claim, since Lars reacted so strongly to _seeing_ it.

‘Oh, it’s… Can I have some?’ He was already beginning to  graze on the heap of fried badness. He looked to be in bliss, salty greasy bliss.

Matthew nodded, approaching slowly. He had only eaten one for testing purposes earlier. ‘You want some?’ With apparent care, Lars fed him several pieces. It was only more delicious because of his attention.

Moments like these were constant, teasing a tortured Matthew. After such a soft gesture, the handsome man turned away blindly.  He sat at the kitchen table with his new meaty treats.

The whole evening was another display of Lars’s obliviousness. Flirting touches and glances, all  invitation to ravage Matthew, were entirely looked over. Lars was plainly peppered with increasingly aggressive compliments.

Desperate and starving for recognition, Matthew went to extremes. He pinned Lars in a snowbank after a wicked snowball fight, undressing him with his eyes. Fingers frisked any stray bit of skin in hunger. Lars being a special brand of moron, mistook it for tickling. He even tickled back a little, egging on Matthew’s sexual frustration.

They were now watching a movie after warming up, and the sun had long set. With Alfred so distracted he hadn’t left his room for four hours, Matthew was alone with his Lars. The movie was mediocre, but the main star was a black leather clad hunk. The deaf teen had watched it with captions at least ten times, purely as a sexual aid.

Gripping Lars with whitening knuckles, Matthew blushed and breathed a little harder. It was his favourite scene, the hero rescuing some dumb chick. Nearly shirtless, the character spoke the lines that always make Matthew squirm with want.

_It’s ok, I saved you._

_But how will you survive the next battle?_

_I’ll have you in my heart._

Swooning, Matthew was fully gripped in a fog of lust. He looked to the beautiful male he was cuddling under blankets. He pawed with hunger at Lars’s chest, needing to see the man shirtless again. Lars looked over, signing ‘What is it?’

Four months of reserved lust burst Matthew’s mental dams. He couldn’t stand not kissing those soft looking lips. Holding back roaming fingertips from that tattooed skin was killing him slowly. With a breathy sigh, Matthew finally kissed Lars.

It was a very raw thing, of passion and need. Matthew’s body sang as Lars was consumed and squeezed. Hard as a rock, Matthew ground his hips just once against a perfect thigh. Oh sweet friction! He was going too far he knew, but the moment blinded him.

“What… what are you… what…” Lars rambled via talking, looking dazed.

Matthew was on top now, Lars trapped on the couch. After a few more passionate smooches, his restless heart began to calm. God it felt good to get that out of his system. Finally relaxing, Matthew once more snuggled Lars and watched the movie.

Lars was stiff and wooden the rest of the night, unwilling to look at Matthew. 

Matthew hadn’t made a mistake… probably. He was sure it was wise to let Lars know of his deep affections. After all, he did truly love the man. At least the thick headed goof knew the situation now. They could talk about this in the morning. By then the handsome teen might be more clear headed too.

Matthew was foolish to believe this.

Morning came, but Lars was gone. His sleeping soft spot on the couch was hollow, only a rumpled blanket remaining. Crestfallen, Matthew watched a late winter sunrise in solitude. Pressing a hand to the chilled glass, condensation traced his hand. It was a hand print that shouldn’t alone anymore, yet it was.

Matthew sighed and watch the sunrise alone. Only time would tell if the light of his own life would return again.


	30. Passions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> SEX WARNING FOR THIS CHAPTER

Ivan had never planned for things to go so far. The terrible advice from grade five persisted in use. Alfred never did stop ‘practicing’ with Ivan. At first the ruse was indeed truth. They were only boys that knew little of the world. They didn’t know of love or it’s complexities.

During grade six, the boys purely used experimenting sexually to rid themselves of frustration. They didn’t do more than kissing and hand jobs. They understood they were children. They understood this was mostly hormones and a means to relax. Still, the regular make out sessions solidified their bond.

By grade 8, Ivan was fully exploring his feminine wiles in the secret safety of Alfred’s room. The one closet was packed with military precision, stuffed with everything a queen could need. “I’m holding it for a friend,” Alfred would claim again and again. Eventually his fathers stopped asking, probably believing him.

After all, the dresses weren’t hurting anyone. It was abundantly clear Alfred was thoroughly grounded in his own gender, lavishing sporty polos and designer skinny jeans like the best of school celebrities.

Ivan’s feeling about this whole ‘practicing’ business was conflicted from the start. Upon entering highschool, it finally became clear. He didn’t look at other males anymore. Likewise, Alfred’s once active interest in dating girls withered to nothing.

They didn’t _need_ other people, at least for deeper variants of affection. No, they were not obviously dating. They didn’t hold hands in public like a bunch of morons. They were always rivals on the field in practice.

There was still something living and powerful between them, an invisible bond. Neither boy dared to damage or shift whatever it was. It was possibly the only time Ivan was so happy. He couldn’t risk damaging whatever he shared with Alfred.

They still needed cover stories for why they weren’t showing active interest in girls. The sports world was male dominated and intensely heterosexual. Gay activities were rebellious calls to war, and change rooms were the battle field. All the meatheads on the team were insecure about a wash of topics. Showing a scrap of emotional weakness was begging for an attack.

At first, fans of Alfred were shallow covers. They didn’t really want to fuck him, they just wanted a sliver of his fame. In venomous silence, Ivan stewed as girl after fawning girl graced Alfred’s arm.

Later, lesbians seeking social cover were used. Alfred’s fake girlfriend of the past 2 years was a little known lesbian, Elise, hiding from society’s glare. In truth she was only moderate friends with Ivan and Alfred. The boys didn’t even know where she was most of the time. The only contact with Elise this weekend was to rehearse a cover story and doctor a photo for Twitter.

It all had a purpose though. Ivan’s surprisingly homophobic Mama would never know a thing. She would still love him, and Ivan could get all the sexy kisses and dress up time he wanted. Everyone was a winner.

Well, Ivan’s easily bruised feelings weren’t the winner. This could hardly be helped. His jealousy was easy to spin out of control. It let to moments like this. Ivan was in full Queen mode, angrily claiming his mate of the last five years.

Every girl that dared _touch_ Alfred fanned the burning need to possess. Ivan was going to brand Alfred alive with his bruising kisses. He would fuck seed so deep, Alfred was forever stained as property of Ivan. No one else could taste him, hold him, _cherish_ him so.

They had both been acting out the novel ‘Pride and Prejudice’ as a means of studying when Ivan’s moody needs took over. Once more, they were pawing and fused in teenage lust. Lately neither could control themselves.

It was hardly surprising they were distracted after twenty minutes of dressed up studying. Alfred was more of a power bottom than anything. He was always hungry for cock, the first to push for hand jobs and oral sex.

As per usual, most clothes were tossed about. Ivan thrust his cock into Alfred with adoration and worship. Below him was Alfred, getting willingly plowed into the mattress. It was a sight no one else would ever witness if Ivan had his way of things. Clawing at the sheets, Alfred’s remaining segments of Darcy costume were equally rumpled.

“Ivy! Please!” came the piteous moan. Ivan grunted in deepened lust, moving his damn frilly skirt out of the way. With new purchase on Alfred’s slim hips, the energetic pace continued. It was all too hot, too tight to control anything.

With a final loud whine, Alfred came. He squeezed and pulled Ivan’s cock in like nothing before. It was too much stimulation, too much rush. Ivan came with a last push of hips, seed and gargled words pooling out of him. Stars still popping when he closed his eyes, he pulled out and flopped beside his giddy boneless lover. 

“I stained your dress Miss Bennet.” Alfred panted, blissful and loose.

“It’s quite alright, Mr. Darcy.” Ivan whispered sleepily.

An unholy sound broke their peace. “ **ALFRED FOSTER KIRKLAND! WHAT IN JESUS’S NAME ARE YOU DOING!?** ”

Both boys screamed in high pitch at the monster in the bedroom door. It was Arthur Kirkland, the patriarch of the cute little family. Ivan was not hated by the man, but he was hardly beloved.

Either way, Ivan was _totally_ dead.


End file.
